on terror in the UK

how convenient

a foiled terror plot that'll distract the public and media from the massacre of towel-heads

i'll hazard a guess and say that tomorrow's headlines won't be about the middle-east

(what matter, the red-tops have lost interest already, leading instead with shane's plans to marry)

today has been a bloodless coup

not a life lost, so far, but a lot of heads turned

a massive shift in media focus and probably in public opinion

and we can all purge our guilt now about lebanon and palestine, because these crazy sand-niggers are collectively, after all, out to destroy our way of life

what more proof do you need?

didn't you see sky news today?

they were going to blow up planes

honest they were

would we lie to you?

(go back to sleep but lock your doors first, the enemy is everywhere)

the last two posts i made on this were tongue-in-cheek, and i'd intended to run with that style throughout the war

then my eye went nuclear and i was forced temporarily out of action

but since i last posted, all room for fucking around is gone, and it's now time to be straight about what's going on

what we're witnessing right now is a systematic massacre of the lebanese and palestinian people

the israeli public are suffering and terrorised, yes, but their situation pales in comparison to the slaughter of hundreds and possibly thousands of innocents across their borders

this must stop, and both the media and citizens of all countries need to stand up and make their voices heard

take to the streets and show that we won't be complicit in genocide

demand that the UN grows a set of balls or disband and give someone else a go

because they're mincing around the 39th floor looking for some combination of words that'll keep israel, the UK and the US happy, while lebanon and its people are devastated

we must stop excusing the cosy lie that war is ugly, and when battles must be fought innocents must die

because there's no excusing any action that brings about the deaths we've seen these last weeks

and this is true for those who claim the right to defend themselves, and those that claim the right to free themselves

we are supposed to be an evolved species, and such consequences of any group's behaviour is therefore unacceptable

i believe there's a special place in hell for all those involved in the careless or calculated killing of innocents

and hell won't be full until the israeli fucks currently wiping out innocent men, women and children are nailed to a wall side by side with their old nazi tormentors, which history in the middle east suggests they've long since come to resemble

on the 39th floor (some notes on the crisis)

memo

date: 17th july, 2006

from: Kofi, head teacher on the east side

to: the school board

friends,

i've tried everything short of taking action

why can't they all just get along?

was i the only one that thought we'd sorted out these fights in the school yard?

things have gotten so much worse these last few days, and i fear a long hot summer lies ahead - with classes now over, and nothing else to occupy the children's time, there seems no hope that they'll do anything but continue throwing stones and wreaking havoc all over the sandbox

am i the only one that thinks this could spread to the whole yard?

the girls, as always, are coming out the worst

i must say, Izzy seems to be over-reacting

i can't condone Paulie and Leb stealing his toy soldiers, and Leb is really making things worse with this wild stone throwing (his arm being much stronger this time round, his stones reaching much farther in to Izzy's part of the yard), but Izzy... well, Izzy is behaving like a kid that got stung by a bee, had an allergic reaction and missed his nap time

(that’s generally his demeanour, come to think of it… i must remember that for the next pta meeting)

if only the head boy's family would pay their school fees - we might then be able to afford a school councillor, which Izzy so clearly needs to attend

but that's just pie in the sky, no point in dwelling on impossibilities

(and anyway, i sometimes suspect the head boy is encouraging this acting out that we're seeing in Izzy, but i just can't put my finger on why this would be the case - perhaps i should ask him... no, perish the thought)

oh dear oh dear, Izzy and Leb are going at it hammer and thongs, even as i write you this note!

there are girls lying everywhere, oh the humanity!

indeed, friends, there are times when i wish we could just get rid of that cursed sand box altogether

but that would just be playing to the likes of Ira - who's note in the suggestion box last term (regarding the same) i've just decided to ignore out of hand

and besides, if we got rid of the sand box, one bully would be happy, another would be forced to move somewhere else and would likely behave in the same unruly manner, tormenting the girls in some other part of the yard

and since it's mostly the girls that play in the sand box - well, friends, you see my problem

am i the only one that's regretting Izzy being given a place in school?

things really are getting out of hand

the head boy's family - and indeed the family of Megale B, of Pythean lineage, you know who i mean - well, they're sending cars to bring some of the younger kids home from school early

such is the direness of our situation

where did it all go wrong?

am i the only one that didn't see this coming?

we tried to be liberal - though not as liberal as that crazy school that some of Megale B's kids attend (back where they come from, you see)

oh, what's its name?

the one where the kids make the rules... (i've even heard tell they're free to bathe naked in the outdoor swimming pool - the thought makes my head swell, in confusion)

no no, nothing like that

we're more akin to that one where the Dark Ages took place – i’m sure you’ve heard of the idea: do anything, so long as you don't hurt others and are respecting yourself too

but jeez, just look at the state of my school yard!

anyway, you'll be glad to know i'm sending a strong message down to the yard, (needless to say i'm not leaving my office - it's much easier to observe up here on the 39th floor)

just this morning i've sent my secretary down to tell Izzy, Paul and Leb the following:

"boys, be careful! you really need to watch where those stones are ending up - girls are getting hurt and we just can't have that, we won't stand for it... so, when you're throwing stones, make sure you hit only the boys involved in your dispute... try to limit your attacks to "narrow targets" of strategic importance to gaining control of the yard - swings and the likes - and please please please try to avoid hitting the girls..."

members of the school board, i have absolutely no idea what i'll do if my message is ignored

i know i should really be asking them to just stop, but i also know they won't, until someone wins or they get tired and have to go home for tea

so, you must understand, the message sent from my office this morning confirms to all the parents that i'm a caring head teacher, but also avoids the almost certain embarrassment that would follow, were i to ask the children to stop fighting, and then be completely ignored, as has happened so often in the past

if anyone has any further suggestions on how to proceed, please respond as soon as your summer schedule allows

i will of course keep you abreast of developments, and may try sending another message to Izzy, Paulie and Leb later today

but i fear this situation is far beyond my realm of influence

boys, after all, will be boys

yours, etc

kofi

on eastern toy soldiers

an ugly situation is festering in the eastern part of town

its history, like all histories, is long, complicated and littered with the crimes and misdemeanours of all concerned

the latter is an inarguable truth, assuming of course that you're approaching this history as an objective journalist, rather than a protagonist

if you are a protagonist though, you're not likely to be reading this, nor are you likely to be concerned with the finer points of justice and morality

you're probably too busy kicking sand in your enemy's eye, spitting in his lunch and stealing his toy soldiers to worry about such matters

for justice, morality, ethics... hell, let's use a phrase for convenience - ALL THOSE THINGS THAT MAKE US HUMAN AND DIFFERENTIATE US FROM BEASTS - they're all put on hold when the possession of toy soldiers or rights to the sandbox are at stake

the following dispatch has been sent to us by Ginsey, our correspondent in the east side of town

he is currently holed up in a hotel - in room1004, of course - overlooking the theatre of operations; a small schoolyard, with a sandbox, some swings and the like, and a few grubby little boys playing war

* * *

False history gets made all day, any day,
the truth of the new is never on the news
(Adrienne Rich)

life in the schoolyard had been relatively quiet, these last few weeks

there were the inevitable skirmishes one expects in that part of town; name-calling, fist-waving and arguments about the rules of schoolyard games... (more specifically, the chronic old dispute about who has or hasn't the right to play in certain areas of the yard still persists - this is perhaps the underlying issue, but it's often quite difficult to get a straight answer from children)

on occassion, the children's rough-housing has lead to the odd grazed knee or bloody nose

one particular instance that comes to mind was when the school bully, Izzy - who had recently been relatively well-behaved but still hovered about the yard like an intimidating and rabid dog - broke the peace of morning recess with an apparently unprovoked attack on a group of girls, paddling at the edge of the school paddling pool and enjoying the sunshine and some light refreshments

for no apparent reason, Izzy took to pitching large stones at the girls

when questioned, he first denied doing so, then apologised and finally said he wasn't quite sure how it happened and that he was probably aiming at someone else - the girls becoming involved was therefore "an unfortunate mistake but a near-certain result" of life in the schoolyard

mistake or not, 8 of the girls were so traumatised that they have yet to return to school

the head teacher, in fact, doesn't expect them ever to return

inexplicably, though, the head teacher took no action against Izzy on this occasion

the current “crisis” (oh those children with their funny little words) started with a daring but blatantly inflammatory manoeuvre by Paulie – a close friend and relative to most of the girls, (though there is some disagreement about whether Paulie's family are a unified body, and whether they all agree with things he does in their name… kids…)

Izzy was loitering in the schoolyard sandbox, lining up his toy soldiers and playing war, as usual

so engrossed was he in the act of lining up soldiers - provocatively, it must be said, in a part of the box where Paulie liked to play - that he failed to notice Paulie sneaking up behind him

and then came the sucker punch from the weak kid, catching the bully off-guard

while Izzy ran his toy tanks up and down the mini-dunes and made "ka-boom" and "peow-peow" sounds, (all the while flicking the odd pebble across the yard and casting furtive glances to see if the head teacher had his back turned, as usual), Paulie crept in from the rear, and pushed Izzy off balance

(it must be said that Izzy is much bigger and stronger than Paulie, so even with the element of surprise this was quite daring)

in the furore that followed, one of Izzy's toy tanks and two of his toy soldiers were trampled in to the sand

more significantly, Paulie managed to snatch one of Izzy's soldiers, unharmed, and retreat to the relative safety of his patch before Izzy could react

the reaction wasn't long in coming, however

Paulie had no sooner made it back to his side of the yard when Izzy's stones began to fall, with little regard for whether it was Paulie or his friends that got hit

many more girls fell, crying

Paulie, meanwhile, issued an ultimatum to Izzy and anyone that cared to listen

"give me back my soldiers and i'll give you back yours... oh, and while you're at it, get the fudge out of MY SANDBOX"

Izzy was in no mood to bargain though, and with stones continuing to fly overhead, he made his way in to Paulie's side of the yard for the first time in several school terms

Izzy stomped all over Paulie's toy soldiers, and one particularly large stone smashed Paulie's swing, the only one in that part of the yard

Paulie's actions now meant his friends had nothing to play on

he held firm in his resolve however – he wanted his toy soldier back at all costs (Izzy is said to have stolen hundreds over the years)

and so, for many days now, both morning and afternoon recesses have been marred with the trampling of toy soldiers and the pitching of stones

but since Izzy and Paulie generally make strategic attacks from the yard’s fringes, it's mostly the girls - innocently playing in the middle of the yard and contested sandbox - that have taken the brunt and suffered the most

dozens are not expected back at school

and Izzy still hasn't got his toy soldier back

* * *

HISTORY, n. An account mostly false, of events mostly unimportant, which are brought about by rulers mostly knaves, and soldiers mostly fools.
(Ambrose Bierce)

you may wonder where the head teacher is during all this

well, he's there on the yard alright, as always, but his hands are kinda tied

you see, this school is kinda run by the pupils

not by all of them - it's not a democracy, hell no - just by a small few, with rich daddies

the problem is, you see, the school is rotten to the core, and has been for a long time

the head teacher (the current one and all previous ones, since this school system was set up in 1945), is there at the whim of the more powerful, senior students, many of whom have no respect for the head teacher or his rulings

the head boy, for example, doesn't even pay his school fees anymore

he also ignores the system when its rules don't suit

the head teacher can't act on this, because, well, without a semblance of support from the head boy, no one would take him seriously

so the head teacher is in this weird situation – he can’t admit that the head boy is out of control and acting like a prig and essentially running the school, because then the head teacher would officially serve no purpose, and would surely be fired…

…he can’t discipline the head boy, because his family are too powerful, and kinda scary, too…

…without the head boy occasionally and publicly saying to the head teacher, “yes, sir, you’re the boss, i take you seriously”, the head teacher would be so embarrassed he’d be forced in to action that, well, he knows he doesn’t have the power or ability to take…

…so the head teacher smiles nervously on these occasions and says “good, i’m glad you know i’m the boss" – when really he knows the head boy has his balls in a guillotine…

...the head boy lets the head teacher stay in school, mainly so he can say “look, don't ask me, ask the head teacher”

it's a situation that suits the head boy well - he can appear fair and just and like he's towing the school line, when all the while he's free to side with whatever bully that looks like garnering him the most lunch money

and since the head boy gives the best dutch rubs and wedgies in the whole yard, the bullies are just delighted to fall in line

the head teacher, despite the best of intentions then, is actually omnipresent but, good lord, IMPOTENT!?!?!?

what new hell is this?

(by the way, the head boy, has a lot to answer for in this school yard dispute... for it was he and his friends that drew the lines in the sandbox that Izzy and Paulie are fighting over... in fact, it was he and his friends that sponsored Izzy's acceptance at school in the first place, insisting that there was in fact a vacancy in Paulie's class, when clearly there wasn't... it was something to do with their guilt over what happened Izzy's extended family, i think...)

* * *

The history of all times, and of today especially, teaches that women will be forgotten if they forget to think about themselves.
(Louise Otto)

so, where do we stand?

the school yard is a right old mess... there's blood and stones everywhere, and no one seems to be having fun anymore

Izzy is back on Paulie's turf, and it looks like he plans on staying there a while

to make matters worse, another of Izzy’s enemies (and no friend to Paulie either, it must be said, lord, it must be said), has snatched two more of Izzy's toy soldiers, causing a ruckus in an area of the yard that had been quiet since Izzy pulled out some 6 terms ago – but that’s a whole other story…

…shit's getting complicated, dear friends

several things should happen

others likely will

first up, the head teacher should grow a set of balls and start doing his job

he should bring the head boy to task and stop the latter's constant undermining of school authority

the head boy should start acting like one, and lead the way - ethically and morally - by setting a good example for younger students to follow

he should stop supplying Izzy with stones to throw, and stop feigning respectability while gorging himself on the proceeds of stolen lunch money

Paulie, for his part, needs to bite his tongue and remember that it's the girls that suffer most when he riles up Izzy

he might be sore about losing out in the sandbox, but Izzy's bigger and stronger and very few school yard disputes have ever been solved to the satisfaction of the little guy when he uses only his fists

he should try sit down with the head teacher

he should try sort something out

but then, that depends on the head teacher being in a position to act, which in turn depends on the head boy letting him act

which in turn means Paulie will likely continue to resort to his fists

which in turn…

what will likely happen is Izzy will continue to stomp around the sandbox for the next few weeks, indiscriminately cracking girls in the head, crushing Paulie's toy soldiers and losing more than a few of his own

the head teacher won't intervene, but may, if he's feeling brave, ask Izzy to stop and ask Paulie to give him back his toy

and, if past squabbles are anything to go by, Izzy will likely give Paulie back a few hundred of his toy soldiers in exchange for the sandbox-1

and after a few months and a bucket-load of broken toys, he'll slope back to his side of the sandbox, shaking his fist at the whole yard and grumbling that he was right all along, because the head boy said so, sort of

and before you know it, an uneasy quiet will likely return to the schoolyard

Izzy will be back lining up toy soldiers in the mini-dunes, making "ka-boom" and "peow-peow" sounds

Paulie will be in his little part of the yard, grumbling about how small it is compared to how big it was, before Izzy came to school

they'll both flick stones at each other, even though the head teacher is watching

but the swing probably won't get fixed for ages

and lots of girls won't come back to school

No harm's done to history by making it something someone would want to read.
David McCullough

on muhammad ali (aka the goat)

float like a butterfly, etc... and then in the final round sell out like a no-good cracker pop queen

it was reported late last week that muhammad ali has sold his name and image to CKX for $50m

and so it ends

CKX recently bought 19 Entertainment, the company who gave us the spice girls and s club 7, and also have a marketing deal with david and victoria beckham

fitting company for the Greatest Of All Time

while ali's demise has been long and painful to watch, this final capitulation is ugly and unexpected

and its effect on his legacy - which at this stage is all the poor bastard has - will long outlast $50m at the rate ali is known to spend, and will long outlive ali himself

an image, once sold to a machine like CKX, is lost forever

and this is a dangerous situation for anyone, especially a man like ali, to find themselves in

CKX claim, of course, that they won't use ali's name or image in any way that would either demean his legacy or offend his religious beliefs

dandy

ali claims that the deal will "help guarantee that, for generations to come, people of all nations will understand [his] beliefs purpose"

which are/is what, exactly?

ali is idealised as a cultural and political force, which in some respects is a cosy misrepresentation of the realities of his involvement in different movements throughout the years

while the strength of principle shown when ali flung his olympic medal in the ohio river in 1960 is admirable, (he was twice refused service in a louisville diner because of his race), this is also a man who went on record in support of racial segregation

ali taking this position was perhaps a backlash response to years of discrimination suffered at the hands of american society, and knowing what we do of him, was likely his way of stirring the debate

but a white boxer (or a white anything) couldn't possibly have voiced this opinion and subsequently been made a UN Messenger of Peace

his anti-war position has been dismissed in a biography by mark kram as "peripheral, a college-kid issue that he tolerated and used"

he also had (has?) a questionable attitude towards women

there's no denying ali's intelligence, because it takes great intelligence to manipulate the media and the public as brilliantly as he has done

but while this penchant for manipulation - when taken with some of his idealistic stances - aren't attractive characteristics, and like or loathe his political positions in general, you nonetheless have to respect his unwavering determination and purpose throughout the 60s and 70s to be remembered as the Greatest

his official biographer, thomas hauser, said of this:

Great men are considered great not only because of what they achieve, but also because of the road they travel to reach their final destination. Ali stood up for his convictions and sacrificed a great deal for them. So why hide the true nature of what his principles were?

which is largely my point - you don't have to like someone's principles, but don't sugar coat them for the easy sell

CKX, its safe to assume, won't be taking on the complete ali, with his many personal failings - there's will be the sanitised Champ, the hero of what's right, martin luther king with boxing gloves, ghandi on caffeine pills

and so not only has ali sold his image, he has also banished the true ideals once associated with that image - the things he stood for, for better or worse

only those willing to read biographies will know the real ali; the rest will see the dumbed-down, airbrushed version on whatever tack CKX want to flog next week

or next year

or the next 50years
___________________________________________________

I have seen the greatest fighters end up living in rooming houses, picking up cans to get the deposits. I have seen champions who are now indigent, depressed, deranged, emotionally troubled, in need of professional help.
(Jack Newfield - The Shame of Boxing - The Nation, October 25, 2001)

boxing is hopelessly corrupt and pugilists often take a more brutal beating outside the ring than in

their abuse at the hands of managers, promoters, et al, mean that many are often reduced to physical and financial ruin and are forced at a relatively young age in to menial circumstances that ill-reflect the athletic prowess they once had

this has been allowed to continue for decades, mainly because it plays to the interests of those that control boxing - promoters, big tv networks, the usual suspects

(i'd cite examples if i had time and thought anyone read this fucking thing)

in this regard it's probably no coincidence that the majority of boxers are either black or latino

a white boy wouldn't be expected to take a beating like this

nor would a black white or yellow dude playing, say, baseball, stand for it - there are safeguards in other sports, and rightly so, to protect the interests of the players

and sure, fella, the companies make money off of 'em, but the fans would be up in arms if their boys weren't bein' seen to proper

who knows, congress might even get involved

but boxing was and is the sport of the working class, and the working class has a tendency to open wide when Big Money undoes its zipper

fuck CKX and fuck ali's "beliefs and purpose"

if he wants to be remembered, in boxing circles or elsewhere, as something other than a man who was great, boxed longer than he should have and sold himself, literally and figuratively, to a marketing giant, he should be working for reforms in the sport that will spare this and subsequent generations of boxers the ignominious end he now faces

if you're gonna put your name to something, don't let it be a museum in your honour - which is due to open in louisville in the near future - or a video game, or runners, or whatever shit CKX has in mind

use your standing in the sporting world to lobby for greater protection for young boxers, inside and out of the ring

work to bring in stricter medical controls in fights at all levels to stop young athletes having their brains beaten to pulp in the name of entertainment

work to stop them being preyed upon by scumbag promoters who couldn't care less what happens to their fighters - fighters who'll stay on their feet for 15savage rounds rather than break the honour code, and then collapse with brain bleeding afterwards

or, now that the deal is done, use some of your $50m to set up a medical centre for the basket cases that your sport creates

or build support housing for the suckers that took the beatings but never made it, and now live in squalor

put your fucking name on that, if you like
___________________________________________________

when hunter thompson interviewed ali in 1978 he had just been defeated by leon spinks

in the context of that time, ali's defeat in vegas by this young, unknown brawler was tragic, and thompson's article captures the sense of anxiety that the Greatest was a spent force

ali had been around nearly two decades - spinks had never boxed beyond ten rounds and had only seven professional bouts to his name

reading now the report of what ali has done, i briefly found myself wishing a horrible wish - that leon spinks had beaten him to death the first time, that ali had died in the ring a two-time world champion, an imperfect but untarnished image of physical and idealistic strength

but who am i to wish that...

and besides, it probably wouldn't have saved ali

dying young works for some, but not all

it's done wonders for jim morrison, john lennon, jimmy dean, marilyn monroe, kurt cobain - and while they've each since been marketed to varying degrees, their premature exits have instilled a sense of mystery and wonder in their short, bright lives, and their images have been forever preserved in the common cultural psyche in shades of eternal youth

but elvis died young too, and although granted he wasn't in his prime and was never what you'd call a social or political force, his rape by cheap marketing still saddens the heart

oh, and CKX?

they own elvis, too

When I'm gone, boxing will be nothing again. The fans with the cigars and hats turned down'll be there, but no more housewives and little men in the street and foreign presidents. It's goin' to be back to the fighter who comes to town, smells a flower, visits a hospital, blows a horn and says he's in shape. Old hat. I was the onliest boxer in history people asked questions like a senator.
(Muhammad Ali, 1967)

on suri

you hate tom cruise

you've hated him from a very early age

you were one of a presumably small number of children who wished he was shot down in top gun...

...actually shot down, killed

and hit the wall at speed in days of glory...

...seriously, scraped out of a twisted wreckage, for real

and had his skull cracked open like an egg by a stray bottle of bacardi in cocktail (cock tale?)...

...you would give your right ball for this footage, if it existed

you've just always found everything about him, well, offensive

and he's a scientologist

which is a problem, because scientology is one of several religions that should be wiped off the planet

tom cruise is someone you generally try to not think about

on the other hand, you really had a thing for katie holmes when you were a kid

(big BIG girl next door fan)

in fact, between katie's character (joey) in dawson's creek and danica mc kellar (winnie) in the wonder years, you're probably doomed to spend your life looking for an ideal that you don't actually want to attain

where's the Angst, where's the Drama in being happy?

anyway, katie's been ruined now

as if it wasn't enough that that fucking dwarf got his hands on nicole kidman, he's now after the barely nubile

okay, she's not that young, and in fairness if she can bare to breath (never mind breed) in the same room as cruise she's probably about as deep as the heels he lets women wear when playing opposite him on-screen, so let's not get too worked up about her life choices

the real problem is this

some minutes ago, dozing off around 2.30am with sky news on in the background as usual, you heard a report about the recent birth of his and her kid, which concluded:

Cruise previously announced that he intended eating the afterbirth and umbilical chord, quote, because they're so nutritious, but whether he has done so is as yet unconfirmed...

as either the ghost, widow or biographer of any rock star will tell you, vomiting when you're semi-conscious and/or lying on your back is not advisable

where does this stuck-up, facile little runt get off?

a) i don't fucking care if he eats the afterbirth, the mother and the child, i just really don't want to know - anyone who demands a silent birth, (no maternal screaming allowed for scientologists you know, and the doctors must communicate through gestures), because it might prove "distressing" to the baby is clearly mentally compromised and therefore capable of anything, including acts usually reserved for furry inhabitants of the Serengeti, and b) if you are gonna eat the afterbirth, and granted you wouldn't be the first to do so, keep it to yourself, you dick - i know you're a media whore but some things you just don't publicise, to protect the privacy of, say, the mother of your child... or her family... or your child, who the god's might just smile upon, call up a one-in-a-million genetic throwback that will see her grow up smart enough to carry out acts of simple cognition and maybe, just maybe, she could be upset, or "distressed" by reading in years to come about your selfish, wreck-loose and entirely reprehensible approach to dealing with the earliest and most precious days of her life

but hey, it's just a thought really

you're tired, you're irritable

you're probably wrong

maybe he'll choke

on morrissey (originally, and rushed)

irish blood, english heart, this i'm made of
there is no-one on earth i'm afraid of

i've been called (or is it accused of being?) a west-Brit with some frequency of late

i'm not entirely sure what this comment is supposed to mean, in 2006 and in relation to me, but it's amazing what reading the guardian and planning a very practical move to london will do to people's opinion of you

granted, you briefly but inadvertently found yourself working for the Tories in Brighton in 2004... but you checked your soul at the door when you took that tele-marketing job, showered at least twice daily during those dark days and also confided in as many cold-call recipients as you could that you agreed... they are a blight on this country... you mean their country, of course... what can you say... you were doing the honourable thing and supporting your happy, little and now lost household...

anyway, for the moment i've decided to adopt the above lines from moz as sort of a personal statement on things...

just for the hell of it

hey, you think it anyway

and besides, we're neighbours

right, back to the original point of this - it all has to do with the most exquisitely rolled R's i've ever heard

it was always gonna be good

morrissey in the olympia

how could it not be?

a small beautiful room full of sexually ambiguous, reformed, semi-reformed or hopelessly irreformable depressives and look-alikes not spitting distance from their idol, just a man, on one hand their saviour and long-term co-dependent in the strangest relationship of all, and on the other hand the thorn in their side, the soundtrack to adolescent oblivion, a maze in which many of us still languish

but then, "the past is a strange place"...

oh, and not all his fans fit the above description

certainly not that bolloxed drunk bald fucker that only friends and the intro to how soon is now? saved from having his face part company with his lower jaw

why he was there, or how he got a ticket, i just don't know

some things you just don't do to me, ever, and slap me dismissively in the face is one of them

your fuse is getting worryingly short and frayed

overall though, there was a huge amount of love in the olympia two nights ago

and that, surely, is what going to see music is about, whatever your taste

morrissey/smiths fans have a bad rep, mood-wise, and sitting in the backyard of the oak tree afterwards, some girl from stoneybatter kept calling us "the suicide brigade"

missing the point in the extreme, but i expect she was referring to lyrics like the following

so you go, and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home, and you cry, and you want to die
(how soon is now?)

on the face of it, that's a pretty bleak lyric

but lyrics, generally, aren't suicide notes

they're words to which (musical) notes are written

big difference, stoneybatter

you write words and music not because you've been beaten by the thing but because you want to find a productive way to work through it... and you listen to the music of others for the same reason... you want to turn the darkness in to light, turn a bad experience in to something new, in to something that tips the scales a little more in your favour... you want to meet the fucker down an alley on your terms, not his... or hers... you want to listen to times when others have done the same... and won... you wrote before about the role of catharsis and it applies here, too...

take me anywhere, i don't care, i dont care, i don't care
(there is a light that never goes out)

anywhere except stoneybatter

that's a literal, idiotic, one-dimensional world you just couldn't live in

if you did, you might, say, get the wrong idea and kill yourself

morrissey is still very much alive, as am i, and his voice - both physical and artistic - are as strong as they were 20years ago

he might not ordinarily write protest songs, but he's socially relevant in that he communicates - stories, emotions, ideas, whatever

he speaks to people and with a turn of phrase he, and others like him, can reach the hearts and minds of his audience

if either morrissey or his fans were suicidal - and by that i mean willing to be defeated by this one world of ours - both the stage and the auditorium would have been, well, empty last weekend

we'd have been sat at home, grippred with a strange fear, and neither of us would ever have asked in the darkened underpass

yes, there are times when we didn't, and this is largely how and why we met, but you, or most of you, is now passed that, and listening to this kind of music is a kind of strange, never-ending requiem to what was and might forever be

we've grown, thanks in part to listening to music like this, alone and with friends

and that, stoneybatter, is what this means to me, and what you'll maybe never understand if you're not willing to break out of that insular little world you blindly managed to paint so vividly in the space of a few ill-formed sentences

incidentally, the lines from how soon is now?, quoted above, came second in a poll to decide the nation's (oh, sorry, england's) favourite lyric

granted it was also reported today that 5million (10% of) Britons drink on a daily basis to mask feelings of depression...

5million and one, eh?

but then, maybe we shouldn't take anything from this poll... robbie williams is in there (angels, number seven), as are (is?) coldplay (yellow, number five)... both beat the who's semi-unfulfilled rock'n'roll wish, hope i die before i get old...

what a telling moment it was, in terms of the mindset of much modern music, when robbie williams reversed that line and sang i hope i'm old before i die... and went to number one...

eminem is in there... good lyric, the intro to lose yourself, but not top-ten good... not better than i'm a creep, i'm a weirdo, what the hell am i doing here? i don't belong here

feeling stupid, contagious, explaining that you're here, now, and demanding entertainment is still a great idea, but maybe not number 3 great

maybe on a different night

funnily enough, i never really knew what marvin gaye was on about (or rather didn’t really listen) when he sang what's going on?, but now that i do, fair play, marv

if i'm honest, i never really got too worked up about bob marley, though his ideas on redemption and emancipation are nice

which brings us to number one

which is, inevitably

one

one life, with each other, sisters, brothers

which - although it's far from the best lyric i've ever heard - wouldn't have bothered me all that much if U2 weren't currently whoring their way through the charts with a new version of one, some 15years after they wrote it

it’s not the 15years that's a problem

it’s not the regurgitation of old songs when the new ones are patently shit

it’s not the video, which adds further weight to the image cult they’ve become

it’s not bono pretending to play guitar

it’s not edge not playing guitar like we know he can

it's... her

what is the fucking point of this version, beyond the kind of egotistical self-indulgent bullcrap that it gets more and more difficult not to associate with U2?

i've tried

i've tried to find something in it, even considered buying it to this end

i've tried to compare it to the harlem gospel choir's version of 'still haven't found what i’m looking for'

but you just can't, even for old time's sake... it's nothing, it's worse than nothing, it's the death knell for their credibility in any uncompromised mind... you've finally given up on them... their musical legacy is falling lower and lower in to the circles of hell and they can blame their own arrogance, their deluded sense of musical infallibility that is fatally betrayed and neutered by a mortal fear of criticism, a fear of falling out of the mainstream… walk away walk away, walk away walk away… because at this stage, i just want to see the back you…

well

it seems two posts have become one

one idea that spread to two

a sprawling mess

this one, this post, this world… it looks a little beyond salvation right now so maybe i'll just go listen to the smiths and kill myself

no, maybe on a different night

on stuff (a rubbish post)

that i am definitely losing, and perhaps have already lost, all patience with my home town is no secret

it has been some time since i've felt at ease here, felt any sense of attachment to the place, felt any inclination to defend it

except when feeling argumentative

potential career(s) aside, this is why i'm leaving

actually, take that further... if i had no good reason to leave, i still would

and that's a sad thing to say, at 23, with family and friends soon to be at some remove, separated by a small but significant body of water and several hundreds of miles of flat, boring landscape that calls itself middle-england

but i'm just so sick of this place

sick of how small it feels

sick to death of it

truth be told, i'm sick, too, of every damn street having its ghost, of every bar, cafe and restaurant, of every park, cinema and gallery always and forever being haunted by some fuck up or other, some memory i just don't want to visit or be visited by every day

coming in to town the other night i rode the same bus along the same route and listened to the same barely verbal morons i've listened to for 23 years

i felt the same sense of frustration i always feel, had the same thoughts on the feasibility of introducing a strictly licence-regulated right to procreate, wished the same vain wish that the lungs of the socially worthless be removed so that a greener world of artists and intellectuals wouldn't need to process their carbon dioxide

i became deeply and horribly depressed, despite the journey only taking 30 minutes or so and its purpose being to meet for dinner and drinks

funny, what breathing swamp gas for even the shortest time can do

crossing from kevin street towards the green to pick up an easter egg, i tried to put my finger on what exactly my problem with all this was, and failed

strangely, the evening threw some light on it

dinner in La Gondola, a small italian just left of the ha'penny bridge if you cross north to south

i hadn't been there for years, what with the ghosts and all, and it wasn't nearly as good as i remembered

cramped conditions, mediocre food and the worst restaurant music i've ever heard don't really add up to a romantic experience

(i didn't think whitney houston singing "i will always love you" could get any worse, until i heard the dance remix... the trance-like build to the climactic chorus triggers strange and terrible memories of a david morales gig somewhere north of sibinek)

the staff weren't italian, not a problem in itself, but their dour manner pissed me off some

as a dining experience, it didn't feel authentic

later on, we found ourselves in zagloba, a polish bar on parnell street, on your right past the welcome inn as you head towards summer hill

the staff, polish, the customers, mainly polish, the beer, polish, the vodka, definitely polish, the decor, even more polish, the music, polish, the posters, polish, the match commentary on charlton-v-middlesbrough, surprisingly polish, sunday afternoon karaoke, worryingly polish, the overall atmosphere, i was informed, distinctly polish

i'm not sure what i expected from zagloba, or even exactly what i got, but whatever it was it was real and damn refreshing

smoking outside, i felt a tap on my arm, followed by "cigarette?"

sorry dude, they're inside, oh shit, no, wait, here they are

ah, irish?

yes

polish, (pointing at himself and smiling)

right

(i got the impression that maybe we'd reached the full extent of our common communicative skills)

how long have you been here?

my english, bad

how long, here?, (pointing at the ground, a gesture that in retrospect makes little sense)

12, (counted out on fingers), days

you like?

no job, no money, no sleep

(oh christ)

friends?

yes, tonight, one night, sleep with friend

i gave him money for a drink and asked him inside, kinda hoping that maybe if he hung about at the bar he could make a few contacts, get things rolling

the dude seemed so heart-breakingly fucking appreciative

i lit another cigarette and stayed outside a while, thinking, and sorta wanting to leave him to make his own way in

male pride is a weird animal, best left alone

standing there, a few things came to mind...

...that compared to the folks inside in that bar, a large chunk of irish people are lazy, arrogant fucks...

...that as a nation we've forgotten what it is to struggle, to leave your country behind, to try finding work and a new life somewhere else...

...that we don't give these immigrants the respect they're due, and that the blatant and widespread racism shown towards them is a fucking disgrace...

i work part-time in an electrical store, and a lot of our customers are of eastern-european and african origin

believe me, we're a racist nation

on a weekly basis i watch as the absolute dregs of a cruel genetic joke effect a sneering swagger towards folks that are probably working two or three jobs to pay these shitheads their commission

that anyone who smells of burger king and doesn't generate enough brain power to talk about something other than, well, nothing actually, feels in a position of superiority... well jeez, aren't we a healthy ol' educated society?

granted, there are assholes everywhere, but in a town this small they're just too easy to find

london is gonna have its assholes, and idiots talking shit on the buses, and boredom and violence and racism and everything else i hate about dublin - on a much larger scale

but it'll also have the things that, despite all, i still love about dublin, and these too will be on a larger scale

what this boils down to is people

a bigger city means a bigger potential circle of like-minded people

a greater chance of finding the life you want, of establishing an artistic enclave with your brothers, despite the darkness all around you...

where'd he come from?

this city is too small, and home to too many small minds

it's too small to deal with change, difference, anything that challenges the status quo

i'm generalising of course, but i think with justification

i'm reminded of a recent conversation, in an office looking out over the city, and a comment made there to the effect that dublin, compared to london, is just too small to develop properly, that it needs to grow physically before it can grow culturally

i don't have time to wait for this to happen

i've given dublin many chances and it keeps letting me down, as do her people

and as london might, but if a girl is fucking with you, you don't stay with her for fear the next one will too

at some point, you have to call time

i'm aware of sounding like someone completely divorced from reality, but if you really think that, why are you still reading?

where are you going with this? london, maybe another failure waiting to happen, but who knows? there's always new york, and dublin is over, anyway. that night in zagloba, you met a group of people who'd taken the chance and moved to a new country to make a better life. hide behind criticisms of others all you like, and they might well be true, but part of why you're so riled up is because you're still here, dead in the water, at risk of going stale. you're angry at yourself, you haven't taken that chance and left, yet. but you will, you have to. it's time.

(you finds it easier to sum up than i does, it seems... this post has misfired badly, there's a point in there somewhere and you might need to come back to it, pick through the rubble and explain yourself on this whole leaving issue once and for all... kudos to anyone that got this far... hmmm... you're missing that third wall already...)

on the 51st (blog neglect)

you've breached 20,000 words, a milestone of sorts, two dissertations, 15 short articles, almost a novella, or about 400 minutes of dictation, please god

but your last post, number 51, makes you wonder if you've lost your way

it's all become a bit... trite

when you started out, you were making points about things, thinking an argument through in the insomnia hours and then publishing it as best you could in the short time you spend on these things

what's happened to that impetus?

at some point room1004 became a stylistic exercise, and although that has its benefits, it makes the whole project feel a little impotent, a little self-indulgent

in fact, the majority of what you've written lately feels like nothing beyond wordy self-gratification

there's a time and a place for masturbation of this sort, and room1004, surely, isn't it

masturbation is fun, and has its role in all of our lives, but do it with enough frequency and it leaves you feeling tired, a limp, spent force, a lethargic bag of endorphins fit for sleep and unfit for the Real Thing

there's too many political posts sitting unfinished in your drafts folder, too many arguments spiked

so you're looking for a new focus

some time around 4am this morning, with cailín deas safely installed, nestling on your chest, contented in a cocoon of quilt and arms and warmth, a head of inevitably and adorably tangled hair rising and falling with your breath, you stare at the ceiling and get to thinking that maybe it's time i dropped this "you" nonsense, time i stopped placing so much narrative distance between me and my subject

it's time "i", the first of the diphthongs, re-entered the blog

i like "you", and you'll probably come back, but "i" gots to call the shots

it's my room, after all

you was fun, but like masturbation, the more you (or dare i say i?) do it the less special it becomes

you originally had a point, albeit a vague and inexplicit one, but you became a habit

and not a particularly healthy one for a 23-year-old male

lets try and leave that motif behind, shall we?

so we'll have less of the cryptic, day in the life two-liners from now on, posts that only the beloved few will ever understand

it's time to write with as universal an "i" as you (darnnit, i) can muster

the epidermic scarring on the base of your right wrist makes it strange that subjectivity of any sort would jar with you, but the subjective form is only worth a shit when you do it with good reason

which you wasn't

but it's more complicated than just deciding to change, for old habits are hard to break

so, here's a message to The Builder

Larry, oh Larry, where have you gone? You sent me off in to the blogosphere but that was the last I ever heard from you. Three months work and all I got in return was two digits - not a hand gesture, mind, but a mark. Now, more than ever, I need your guidance. The comments have dried up and I'm not sure if I'm wasting my time. Room1004 is a colder place since you left, despite the change of season. If you're still roaming through these parts, and if your righteous struggle against the right isn't taking up too much of your time, please come and visit, with comforting words and cruel wisdom, to direct this floundering, schizophrenic ship.

(hey, you, i'm still here... you, that is... have you considered that some day you'll regret this post and feel that you've been rash and irreversibly torn down the third wall? you know there's that possibility, and that i call the shots just as much as you do... you haven't heard the last of me)

on grogan's (i think)

despite all, arrived in work

possibly still drunk

shaking

charco you loon, why the breaking of glass?

you wonder what sort of impression you made

you wonder lots of things

indeed...

whatever that note said, you stand by your argument to the effect that walt whitman was, and is, The Man

you vaguely remember saying something about the democracy of poetry - autobiography and the american ideal

and even though it's not true, you're gonna tell everyone about joyce's three F's

aw-n ef-ay-el-ing ah-gay-en

granted you broke lent

repeatedly

you didn't attend

repeatedly

but fuck it you tried

repeatedly

tried to catch up, tried to focus, tried to give a damn

failed to catch up, failed to focus, still don't give a damn

failed

repeating in august

you left it late but you went balls deep with the time you had and it doesn't look like it paid off

why go down this road? why get in to it all again?

all's you know is it's put a downer on this whole gig

it's gradually sinking your boat, tearing a hole far below the water-line, and when the engine room(1004) is flooded there's not much point in worrying about the speed or quality of service up in the dining hall

rock bottom awaits, even if the captain does the honourable thing and stays on board till the bitter end

on the 16

stuck in traffic and listening to Heathen, you frown when you think, based entirely but reasonably on appearances, that none of those people at the pedestrian crossing own this album

on a quick pint (by way of explanation)

1004 gets on top you sometimes

all those bleating voices

sometimes you need to escape...

and for better or worse you've made it a habit to escape some 50 metres north to the swan, regardless of time or company

safely installed in the snug, you leaf through the guardian and get to unwinding

blair: my promise to quit may have been a mistake (a strange way to form that sentence, an indirect quote subbed by a sarcastic labour rebel) message to smokers: just get over it (fuck off you smug bitch) pro-life militants turn on schools (more on that later) 18 iraqis killed in clash at mosque (and turning to page two you start to wonder why you just didn't bring a novel) anti-abortionists turn sights on schools and hospitals in US-style campaign (dear god its worse than you thought, someone abort james dowson, quick, it's not too late) friends defend kember against accusations over iraq mission (why is this a news story? how can someone not commenting fascinate people so?) UK will meet emissions target, says beckett (what odds?) scientists warn of high rate of vCJD infection (i'll have my meat sent from meath street) big questions that won't go away (a PM that won't go away) US politicians to view play on guantánamo (send the fuckers there, make them view guantánamo, let the media view guantánamo) rwandans to see genocide on big screen (i'm starting to see a pattern) jailed afghan christian could be freed as court reviews case (nuke the world, let's take our chances and hope we evolve with perspective next time) girl aged nine stabbed in face as russian tension spreads (the terrorists in 24 are right) 'honour' attack leaves woman fighting for life (you've just finished your second pint, you're on page 20 and you're losing the will to live) seal hunt gets off to a bloody start (not even maccer'n'mills can stop them, "blame canadaaa") gunman kills six at zombie-themed party (if you were armed, drugged and in a room full of people dressed in zombie costumes, sadly you may have done the same)

you're too depressed to venture in to the financial pages

during all that time spent unwinding, a guy in black slacks, shirt and jacket (with a tattoo covering the entire left side of his neck) keeps coming in the side of the snug and looking across at the church

he apologises, once or twice

the church bells begin to peal and the pub collectively moves towards the door

watching the owner don a suit jacket and all but the barmaid leave, you assume it's a regular that's passed

as if on cue, halleluiah begins to play over the speakers...

this is likely a coincidence rather than design, a quirk of that hard drive jukebox behind the bar, which is also why it's not cohen or buckley singing but some god-awful elevator version

still, there's a degree of pathos to it that your third pint makes you appreciate all the more

a combination of curiosity and propriety leads you outside to smoke

you watch as the crowd, most of them with drinks left unattended inside, file in to the church

the majority stoop to give money to a troubled-looking girl of about 20, dressed in a dirty white bubble-jacket and sitting on the side steps of the church

and like it or no, this scene, and specifically this pub, are part of the dying reason this town will tug at your heart when you leave...

it's a scene that's uniquely dublin, and something london won't give you

but then london will give you something different, something dublin can't

sometimes you feel like this city is lost to you, then something simple brings it back

half an hour later, twice the volume that left return

as it happens you're outside smoking again, so holding the door open for the majority of the mourners you're back observing

the older generation, done up like you'd expect and being linked by daughters... their brothers in suits of a sort that aren't quite formal... their kids, some of them not old enough to look comfortable in their white shirts, black ties and shoes with creases at the toe conspicuous by their absence... the younger children, dressed either in communion suits or clothes so inappropriate but fancy they must be christmas outfits...

back inside, the pub is swarming

you still have the snug to yourself but every other table is full

there's enough peroxide to choke a horse

the older of the kids are doing their best say mannish things

they're as uncomfortable doing so as they are in their suit, and each comment is followed by a shy sort of smile, testing the water and seeing if they're doing it right

the younger kids wander about with strawed bottles of cidona and packets of crisps

who knew they made levi's that small?

it soon devolves in to a very dublin kind of funeral, where no one really talks about the deceased

it becomes, and you've seen this in your own family too, not a celebration of the life or whatever it's supposed to be, but a kind of reunion

your families aren't that close

you're so detached from the event that someone will even venture, half joking, half in earnest, that he, now, is the head of the family

you can't get away from this, fly as you might

smoking at the side door, you're joined by a man in his late 50s

y'know bogart shop' der?, with a backward nod

slightly confused but thinking anything is possible, you take "shop" to be a strange synonym for "frequented" and the overall meaning of the sentence to be humphrey bogart used to drink in the swan

really?

there follows a moments silence, and a minute or so later it becomes clear he's talking about a clothes shop on camden street called bogart's

i was up there doin the plasterin a few years ago and y'know they have laurel in the window, stan laurel, well then they had laurel and hardy and the next day i was up there and it was just laurel and i sez to yer woman, i sez, where's the other fella?... where's the other fella, i sez, fumbling with a match

you reach out and light a small cigar whose depletion suggests the filter end should be more moist

you wonder how long it's been in his pocket

she sez, i had to put him up on the landing, they were always fighting...

hearing this story several more times before you can reasonably excuse yourself doesn't make it any less endearing

and leaving dublin will make it all the more easy to forget the bullshit and remember just this, the unsolicited stories and jokes from folks you won't find anywhere else on the planet

back inside, sarah brightman is singing time to say goodbye on the jukebox

sure it's no wonder the titanic sank with her singing on it...

the demented nature of this town, this pub, has a hold on you you don't like to admit

A mail went around today saying that we're having a class night out, but not in The Swan. Fair enough, let's get dressed up and go for cocktails, but if you're asked to remember this year - asked what you've taken from it all - with all due respect it won't be formal, organised, class nights out. As dear as those nights and all those people are to me, this year took place in The Swan.

on all those good intentions

lost in a blur of...

on the existence of satan

you now know that there is in fact a Dark Lord, a being of unimaginable vileness, the chief spirit of evil, adversary of God, tempter of mankind and master of Hell

you know because only a creature such as He could possibly have sired the demon-child you just encountered on the bus home

nothing completely human could produce the unholy screams that just forced you to chew your knuckles till they bled, get off just two stops in to your journey and return to 1004 to smoke and pray for salvation

it can't have been human, it just can't

the sounds ranged from guttural, choking sobs to piercing, nausea-inducing shrieks

seriously, not fucking human

what would you do if you were this thing's mother?

she just sat there, oblivious

perhaps the experience of receiving and housing satan's seed has left her soul so dimmed that she can no longer react to things in the same way normal people can

or maybe, understandably, she just pierced her eardrums with a knife months ago, as you considered doing

beware, dear friends

the calendar date on june 6th this year will read 6/6/6, and we should wholly expect that little blonde bastard to sprout wings and fly across the city, breathing fire, striking down innocents and ushering in a new era of impenetrable and eternal darkness

the Dark Lord cometh, none shall be saved

on your editor's response to the style of the first short piece you wrote (for ireland's current affairs weekly)

"write straighter"

indeed

on faith

bored and reading through the daily assault of forwards in your inbox, you log on to www.gingerkids.org

it's a mildly amusing tongue-in-cheek website masquerading as a support group that aims to achieve equality, understanding, tolerance, and acceptance for Ginger Kids all over the world

they call themselves the international ginger kids foundation, or IGKF

it won't losen too many kidneys but it killed a few minutes after an abortive interview

in the top right-hand corner of the page your attention is drawn to a google ad, which you first mistook for a link within the ginger kids site

Suicidal thoughts? Take this quick test for answers

you assume that this is a development of the statistic offered by IGKF that 10% of kids born with Gingervitis commit suicide by age 16

you wonder if this is in poor taste, and why you're still reading

the google link takes you to www.godtest.com

totally unrelated to IGKF, it hosts a simple yes/no survey that leads you through some questions about your views and beliefs

the god testers ask that you consider each question thoughtfully and answer as honestly as you can

you decide that you will

the first question, do you believe in god? draws a negative click from your right hand, since you assume that the god in question is a christian one, or something similar, and bears little resemblance to your own beliefs on who (or rather what) He is

you're then guided through questions along the lines of who do you think jesus was? and how do you know?

when asked Can you say YES to these questions?, on balance, and given a tally of 4 (or possibly 5) out of 5, you decide to answer no

1. Are you a sinner?
2. Do you want forgiveness of your sins?
3. Do you believe that Jesus Christ died on the cross for you and rose again?
4. Are you willing to surrender your life to Jesus Christ?
5. Are you ready to invite Jesus Christ into your life and heart?

having presumably damned your eternal soul to hell, you're asked to CLICK WHY YOU SAID 'NO'

I Do Not Believe in God.
A Christian hurt me.
I'm not good enough.
Some other time.
The gospel's not fair.
I'm a good person.
I'm Jewish.
There are many paths to God.I tried it and it didn't work out.
I can't be forgiven.

feeling that a self-deprecating response was only fair - given the guilt instilled by many years of schooling (weekdays and sundays) - you chose option number three, i'm not good enough

Dear Friend,

You've figured out a major truth; you are not good enough to have a relationship with God, but then neither am I. No one is.

revelations 06.03.06

things get really inneressin when the god testers ask you to choose between a number of interpretations from scripture

For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life. (John 3:16)

The Scripture means:

I will not perish if I believe in Jesus.
I'm doomed.

again, you imagine that since you and the god tester are probably talking about different gods, and given that the obvious meaning of the scripture (if it's true) means you're in serious fucking trouble, you grit your teeth and click i'm doomed

Please re-read and answer the question again

isn't it nice to know that are right and wrong answers in matters of faith?

and here was you, with a degree in philosophy and a shitload of books on theology read, considered and stored in an albeit dusty part of the brain, thinking that maybe this was a complicated issue that you'd spend the guts of your life figuring out

if only you'd taken the godtest all those years ago

you could have saved yourself so much bother, and maybe done that degree in business economics and social studies

all those questions you struggled with, all those intractable essay questions that kept you up for nights on end, nerves frayed and system gone toxic with coffee

if you'd taken the godtest, you could have cleared it all up by navigating a few short pages of html

if you get it wrong, if you answer the wrong way, you just click back on the browser and try again

eventually, your faith will be unshakeably restored

unless, of course, you click that fantastic little x at the top right-hand corner of your screen, and let the godtesters, with their narrow-minded, obscenely arrogant, backward and outdated view of the role of faith in your world, go fuck themselves

on perspective

we all complain

you included

it's life

no matter how sweet your deal you'll always find some reason to bitch, some itch to scratch till it's raw enough to feel significant

deadlines, skint, traffic, bad manners

but walking back to room1004 on a bleak and snowy friday evening you just saw someone bedding down on cardboard

outside, fully dressed twice under a blanket, face buried in the corner of a fire escape double-door near the bottom of the stairs

6.32pm

inside, you pass a chaplaincy noticeboard

life is easier when you pray as you go

earth's crammed with heaven and every bush is afire with god

"i am with you always"

indeed

it's knocked the bollocks out of you

on the blog (appearing just now)

The following news report, published here and originally dated 16/2/06, was unavailable until now due to the incapacitation of our correspondent. We publish it now as a word of warning on the dangers of complacency.

on lent (taking up shorthand for)

you considered giving up smoking...

...but the last eight days (up to last night in the swan) seemed to prove that you're still not addicted, though the feeling that kept you awake at night, the feeling that insects were crawling beneath the flesh on your limbs, suggests that you may be worryingly close to nicotine dependence

you considered giving up drinking...

...but the last eight days (up to last night in the swan) seemed to prove that you're still in control, and that although it might still be a good puzzle to cross Dublin without passing a pub, it still seems possible, for now, to cross Dublin without stopping in one

you considered giving up drinking with those three...

...and then laughed heartily

you considered giving up drinking with college friends...

...but realised it would make too much of a dent in your social life

you considered giving up drinking on your own...

...but realised it would make too much of a dent in your social life

you considered giving up chocolate...

...but remembered you're not twelve, and since you mainly subsist on this gift (and others) from the Aztecs, abstinence on that front might well be good for the soul but could ultimately lead to a waning demise of the body

and so, after much soul-searching, you've come to a decision that could finally unhinge you more than all of the excesses you routinely inflict on your few pounds of grey matter and scarce more stones of flesh and bone

you're taking up shorthand

just a little, but a little every day

because lent is, after all, about sacrifice

and what greater sacrifice could a stubborn left-handed disciple of modern recording technology make than to learn how to doodle in a consistent and readable manner?

your penance will almost certainly lead to gross consumption of all of the above vices

but this process is about healing the soul

so body be damned, i guess

well then, tonight's the night...

a night when you face your demons, embarking on forty days and nights in which you must muster all available strength of purpose in the hope that this humble sacrifice will finally prove your worth to the fourth floor gods that forever hold the key to the cathedral gates, and salvation

wish me luck

on building a new town (remotely)

the attitudes of the occupying forces towards the citizens of iraq were yesterday betrayed as contemptibly complacent, arrogant and detached, with the announcement that Llewellyn Davies Yeang (LDY) have signed a million pound contract to redesign the ancient city of najaf

bad enough that the contract has been outsourced to a london-based architectural company (rather than employing iraqi engineers/architects, further evidence of the coalition dividing the spoils of war), but in an allegorical twist worthy of Orwell, the announcement included details of the fact that LDY's architects will at no point visit the site they are to develop "because of the security situation"

the new najaf will be designed in an office in london

najaf, a bombed out town in southern iraq with insurgency problems, is deemed unsafe for LDY's prospectors

then don't take the fucking job

bush can wax eloquent about the symbol of this new town till LDY casts another set of ridiculous concrete cows and sends them home to najaf, but such a blatant disenfranchisement of najaf's people (and professional/intellectual community) shows the appalling depths to which the coalition's attitudes towards the iraqi people have fallen

the concept of invading a country on false premises (albeit with the tangible but questionably motivated benefit of removing a dictator), destroying large chunks of that country and then divvying up the rebuilding contracts among companies based in the invading countries that don't even have the consideration to visit the site...

fuck, that sentence just wasn't gonna end

but then, this situation may not either

LDY were keen to point out that they are confident of the success of the scheme, even though they won't be there to oversee it

using aerial photos and the firm's iraqi partners (returned exiles) as their "eyes and ears", LDY still hopes to meet with representatives "at some stage in the Kurdish north, which is a lot safer"

dandy

the symmetry of the whole affair is a little appealing, however

a country bombs a town in to oblivion from the skies, killing innocent civilians, and then that same country rebuilds that same town using the same (or similar) aerial photos that had been used to pick out targets

appealing, but hardly a humanitarian watershed

up to 70% of najaf's people are unemployed

it therefore seems galling, even by coalition standards, to hand out a contract that will benefit not the people of najaf (who had a relatively nice town before the coalition came to call), but a company like LDY

if eye-rack is to be rebuilt, let the iraqi people themselves make the decisions on how this will be done

stop lining your pockets with blood money, carving up a country that was beaten in to submission and profiting from projects that the actions of fucks like you made necessary

on irving's imprisonment

murder cannot be hid long;
a man's son may,
but at the length truth will out

(Launcelot, from Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice)

this guy Irving is clearly a prick

no argument there

his partner has been quoted as saying "he's banned from Austria and still went. David doesn't take advice from anyone. He thought it was a bit of fun, to provoke a little bit."

clearly the actions of an arrogance beyond the pale of the average sound mind

but i'm dismayed

the holocaust is, to say the least, a delicate issue

especially if you're a nazi-apologist that questions its extent

but you can't (or shouldn't be able to, for you clearly can) throw people in prison for their opinions or beliefs, just because they jar with the common sensibility

imprisoning someone because they deny that an event took place does nothing but serve to promote the untruths they purvey and elevate the individual in question to the level of martyr in the eyes of his or her followers

denying the holocaust took place is insensitive, but can hardly be classed as incitement to hatred or "glorification" or any of those current hot-phrases

the extreme far-right, anti-semites, racists: they will always believe what they want, and self-delusion is essential when your beliefs are contradicted by morality and fact

sending this decrepit mouth-piece for the dark-side of western civilisation to prison suggests that his lies are a threat to our world

which they aren't

his audience is a willing one and need little convincing

if they don't deny, they'll justify, and so the way to challenge their position is not to treat them as a threat but to ensure that the truth remains unavoidably present in any discussion of the issue

the "truth will out", and with regards the holocaust it already has

lying about it at this stage is an act of petulance that only becomes dangerous if we begin to take it seriously enough to challenge it in court

what's next?

if we can prosecute and imprison based on opinion, no matter how wrong or inaccurate that opinion may be, we're going down a very dark road indeed

on bird flu

There are fears that the deadly H5N1 virus is behind the sudden illness of a swan on Dublin's Aungier Street.

The swan, which until last night appeared to be healthy, was apparently overrun with symptoms that bear all the hallmarks of the killer virus that has been stalking the area for some time now.

While people that know the swan seem confident that the illness is only a temporary one, the signs are nonetheless still worrying.

The symptoms include; bad manners; extreme and inconsiderate verbosity; premature and messy drunkenness; the excessive application of hugo boss aftershave; and primal attempts at mating (or "scoring") rituals, with the ultimate goal of the deranged creature becoming to rut blindly and violently in a rathmines bed-sit beneath a Free The Weed poster, whilst listening to a Pink Floyd Best-of CD, (2001).

Locals expressed their hope that the virus may only be in the early stages, as several samples taken from the swan suggest that the offending cells were first year bacterium, emboldened by the recent cold snap and the onset of rag week.

However, vigilance must be shown by all, as an enforced cull of so rare and beautiful a creature would surely be a tragedy from which the area would struggle to recover.

on a worrying text

Just watching the
grammys... the
gorillas (sic) are
great byt when you
look at madonna
you realise that
the taliban still
has a very
important role to
play!

Sender:
Mum
14-Feb-2006
21:14:09

on cheney's quayle shoot (would that it was)

it's just too easy

so let's not

on being back in the studio

standing outside room1004 with a crate of beer under your arm, stubbing a cigarette and waiting to be buzzed back downstairs to the studio, you can't help but watch three greasy pigeons picking their way through a puddle of vommit that sits at the bottom of a streaked graffiti wall across the lotts

inspired, you return to the studio downstairs to find that the two new members still haven't turned up

nor would they

you just can't get good help these days

on saturdays (the quietness of)

alone in room1004, you just met with a light-bulb-changing security guard who, in response to your comment that it's very quiet in here today, replied:

yes... you'd almost wish something happened

he spoke slowly and quietly, and placed the kind of strange emphasis on the words something happened, predicated with an unsettlingly significant pause, that he leaves you in no doubt that given any kind of disturbance he would draw arms and fire without hesitation

if he had arms, of course

(you wonder briefly if he carries a can of mace)

you're glad when he leaves, doubly glad you can bolt the door from the inside

you glance up at the CCTV camera over your right shoulder and utter a brief prayer in its direction that before you leave today, nothing happens

on veisalgia (causes, symptoms, cures)

three of you on rounds again

then three bottles of wine

and gin and tonics with lime

your hands are shaking now and you feel like there's a small woodpecker perched on the tip of your right ear, attacking your skull

you usen't get hangovers

maybe you're getting old

(to the swan penfold, this needs a cure)

on last night's friends (etc)

you're spending too much

but you're having fun

you feel energised

in a tired way

you're dipping your toe back in the creative pond, and you like how it feels

you're back talking about things you're passionate about

you may even act on it this time

three of you, on rounds in the stag's head, a few smokes and an intelligent conversation after pushing eleven hours in room1004

higgins, ginsberg, thompson?

ginsberg, thompson, higgins?

thompson, ginsberg, higgins?

you don't want higgins in the middle or thompson at the beginning

it just won't scan

but you listen to the arguments, it's inneressin

it turns you on

it's a choice between a coherent, chronological show, or an emotional kick in the head

you're leaning towards the emotional element, because that's what drives your heart

but there's a pragmatic little fucker driving your head, and he's going for coherency

you don't like how much influence that guy has some times

you can't decide who has the final call on such things, and that's an important question moving forward

if you don't answer it, you may drown in that creative pond

(you wouldn't be the first)

but it was all going so well, last night

you were on the brink of drunkenness, that blissful state when you can still function like a rational being but feel like gravity has been turned down from 9.8 to around 1.67

on the dark side of, of course

you were, as ever, mildly conscious of the fact that all of this might seem silly tomorrow

but for now, this is real

they are of course real, genuine friends

it's just that three of you on rounds tend to express that a little more than you would, say, drinking coffee

but fuck it, you mean this

you're not some drunken schmuck pouring his heart out to a taxi man, believing you've really connected with him and thanking him with every ounce of sincerity your soul can muster for getting you home safely, tipping him excessively

not tonight anyway

tonight, you're yourself, with your friends, and you mean it

but tonight, when you get in the taxi, it all sort of goes horribly wrong

not that anything really happens, it's just that you're on a high and what you're forced to listen to sends you crashing and makes you angry

maybe you're over-sensitive

it starts out with you and the guy that didn't stay in town with his girlfriend cracking jokes about the psychic tarrot reading on the radio

is there someone in your life that needs help?

you're a business man are you? are you thinking of expanding?

all very insightful

the dj working with this visionary was irritating but, so far, nothing too offensive

then comes the one o'clock news

and much hilarity, it seems

the three stories were as follows

risk of riots in russia

armpits are sexy

man transplanted with woman's kidney turns gay

the stories were ridiculed in turn, with russians being "drunk outta der boxes", a brief discussion on women's bodily fluids (culminating in the dj sniffing loudly at the female newsreader's armpits) and a homophobic joke about whether gay men piss sitting down

everyone in the studio, including the producer and newscaster giggled throughout

at this point i asked the taxi driver what station we were listening to

he said 98fm, and something along the lines of tom o'breanagain, 10-1 monday to thursday

my friend turned to me

blog-a-tronic?

abso-fuckin-lutely...

the dj was clearly a prick, but that's to be expected on dublin radio stations

what got me was the lack of respect shown to, a) the stories themselves, though some didn't deserve it, b) the concept of News in general, and more specifically the stories that weren't reported, and c) the listenership, though perhaps they deserve it for tuning in to this bile

what sort of a mind...?

matters deteriorated further when it emerged that the show was to be played out with a performance by the worst dublin-based acoutic singer-songwriter wank you've ever heard

this is weighty statement, when you consider that you've heard enough wank these last few years to tip the balance of constituent parts in the atlantic ocean, where the output to be aimed in that direction

indeed, much of it seems to be

you get out of the taxi and light a cigarette

you didn't tip

your mood has been ruined and now you're starting to feel drunk

you getting to thinking about tomorrow's post

blog-a-troinic

you realise that maybe you won't get to sleep for a while, because any post that matters a shit to you, you thought it through in bed the night before

it's part of that clinical, pragmatic, perfectionist streak you don't like

you think back over the night

did you really hear that?

was it really that bad?

you think then of your friends, and though it makes you feel better at the time, the cold wind and change of ambient mood makes those earlier feelings that tomorrow that will all seem daft come back in augmented form

so you focus on the post

will you remember it?

how much faith do you have in your grey matter?

it's flooded right now, and all these high thoughts might slosh out over the sides

you think maybe you'll write some of this down when you get home

you stop behind a bush to stub out a half-smoked cigarette and light another, just out of sight of your parent's bedroom window

you get to pacing up and down, thinking things through

it's fucking cold

how much will you remember?

you think of that burger you had in ricks, on noticing (for the second time in two weeks) that the poster from casablanca was gone from the wall

you decide that casablanca is your favourite film, that the maltese falcon is both superb and important for its genre-defining qualities, and ultimately come to the conclusion that your favourite bogart movie is still key largo

this seems important at the time

you start to wish your laptop wasn't on a chair under your girlfriend's desk

this could have been so much better

turning to pace back, you see an old man coming

it reminds you of a post you were supposed to write the other day but didn't

mainly because you couldn't think of a title that would work with the "on" format

that little fucker in your head, calling the shots

it was a post about walking towards town and turning on your heel to watch two brand-new black ferrari f430s being transported on an open-backed truck

as you turned you got to facing an old man standing in the doorway of the findlater pub, smoking

from the bar the sound of pulp's common people could be heard

it just got you to thinking is all

different lives etc.

you wanted to call the post something along the lines of on the centre of the universe, but at would clearly have made more sense

so you canned it

back behind the bush you light another last extra final cigarette as the old man passes you by

the image unsettles you and you start to pace again

you're trying hard to write this thing in your head, remember, remember, remember

you get to wondering about the psychological implications of when you use you

if you post this, you realise how relatively exposed you'll be

stubbing out the cigarette, you realise you paced a little further than you intended to, and wonder if you paced in to your home's line of vision

you rummage in your pocket for chewing gum and keys, surprised at the amount of change you find

you should have tipped

you almost catch the old man by the time you reach the end of your street

he's drunk too, walking ahead of you in the same zig-zag fashion that you are

you hope both similie and metaphor end there

you don't like the thought of his mishapen destination

maybe you're being unfair

you stumble to avoid standing on a snail and steady yourself on the wall of the mcK's, the most perfectly heartbroken home on your street

2am and the gates are open, the car's not there

the shame of it all

deep breaths at your doorstep and fumbling for the keys that you for some reason put back in your pocket, you scatter the foil of a dozen packs of cigarettes

it takes a moment to gather them, and yourself

composure regained, in bed, you're grateful that you had the presence of mind to buy a bottle of water

you're writing notes and realising you've forgotten most of it, that this could have been so much better

if you'd written it now, you would have been honest

as it is, you'll write it tomorrow from scrambled notes, with that guy in your head back in full control and worrying about presentation, sentence length, coherency

you need to decide who's gonna call the shots

for everyone's sake

especially

yours

on the american way of death

i've had death on my mind these last few days

not in a morbid sense, if that's possible

i read an extract of Jessica Mitford's article, the american way of death, reproduced in John Pilger's new collection of investigative journalism

sweet mother of god

aside from the base greed and crass status-seeking that you'd expect from elements of american society, the most disturbing part of the piece talks about what goes on behind the satin curtained reposing rooms in funeral parlours

specifically, the embalming process

i won't get in to the finer details, you can probably find the article on-line and you should buy Pilger's book anyway

suffice to say, the description of embalming sounds like a passage from Melmoth the Wanderer

i couldn't help thinking, i don't want this

not that i'm particularly attached to my body, and i sorta half look forward to (or am certainly curious about) what'll happen when i leave it

it's a project i'm working on daily

but while i'm not hung up on the sanctity of the body, be it breathing or not, there's something about the day to day of morticians that is bizarre, gruesome and unsettling in a sense reminiscent of gothic fiction

reading the article, my mind strayed (in the context of what i was reading) to friends and relatives that have passed away, which i found upsetting

reprehensively, i also meditated on elderly relatives, and what was waiting on the bodies i routinely embrace

but that's the sort of thing that'll unhinge you at three in the morning, so i got back to my own bag of bones

so, what's the plan?

based on what i read in the article, it seems embalming is not a legal requirement (anywhere), so i'll leave very clear instructions (when the time is right) that under no circumstances am i to be sent to the butchers to be drained, chopped, chipped and made up like a mannequin

(on the other hand, the embalming process absolutely guarantees you won't be buried alive, which has worried me at times and was apparently, i've read somewhere, one of the motivations to invent the process in medieval times)

as to form of burial, that's been on my mind too

rotting in the ground doesn't appeal to me

i spontaneously developed claustrophobia on a 14hr bus journey from sibenik to dubrovnik last summer, the result of shot nerves and whiskey-induced panic attacks

so coffins in general are out, psychologically speaking

so too are long bus journeys and serbian border checks

cremation, i'm not convinced of

it just seems a bit previous to condemn yourself to flames automatically

let's not be negative, there's better things that can happen after the pennies are placed

despite my crippling fear of drowning (or any kind of suffocation), i'm nonetheless drawn to the viking warrior send off, which involves more water than i'm generally comfortable with

floated out to sea on a funeral pyre, and if you're a viking in hollywood, one of your soldiers will light the pyre with a flaming arrow, fired from the shore while your comrades raise swords (or axes) and pay tribute in song before a spot of plundering in your honour

it's still flames, but there's something natural about the viking funeral, regardless of the possibility that my knowledge of it is completely askew

it seems sort of... elemental

fire, water, wind and earth (assuming that soil in some way makes up the vessel)

is earth actually an element?

or was that just a convenient plot fabrication of the god-awful Captain Planet cartoon that i watched religiously in the late 80s during the early days of misguided global-warning hysteria?

i'd google it if i'd the inclination

but all this thought of death seems now to have sapped my enthusiasm

and so this post will suffer a premature death too

on being back blogging (maybe)

well... yes, and here we go again (HST)

maybe

the impetus to blog died a horrible death some weeks ago

it drowned

in alcohol

(that night)

but we had fun

this was supposed to be an ongoing thing, the shame, the shame

fuck sony

so, do we fire it up again?

being back in room1004 these last few days makes it seem like we might

there's been a lot of things these last few weeks that went unsaid, goddarnit

that said, who reads this anyway?

you could post a suicide note and it more than likely wouldn't alert the world to save your ass

methinks

but today's one o'clock tv news on rte deserves mention, regardless of the probable futility of doing so

the leading headline ran as follows:

two irishmen rescued after their boat capsised off the coast of bermuda say they're happy to be alive

(shit, who'd a thunk it?)

the report, which filled in the details, continued

carmel towey, the mother of one of the victims, has been giving her reaction to the dramatic rescue...

i'm very happy they've been rescued

were you worried about them?

well being a mother i suppose i was

fascinating

and worthy of its slot as the main headline

and, in other news

Dicky C has suffered his 64th heart attack, one for each year he's poisoned the planet with his existence

that duplicitous bitch is rumoured to be taking his place

one of the last great white whales is being eased out of his induced coma by doctors in Israel who received a memo from the Dark Lord explaining that his work wasn't complete and he would prefer if we could keep the big A up here for a while

politicians in england confirmed that they don't want a human leader with human problems leading their party and so forced him in to an embarrassing resignation that the human, all too human voters didn't want

the non-human cambell looks good for an upgrade

oh, and lest we forget, turkey is fucked

(never mind, it's far away, they wear funny clothes in the eastern bit and besides, the chickens don't have passports, they'll never get in to europe)

iranians + nuclear power = ...

but hey... two irish guys didn't die...

anyone ever read Orientalism?

hell, it's worth starting up the blog again just to give kudos to the guardian for the headline on their website that reads:

Sharon shows signs of brain activity

finally

and yes i know the middle east is hanging in the balance and he's undoubtedly the best person to lead it in to a new era of hope, even though he's an evil fuck with blood on his hands, but we've got to be pragmatic

well, that's a whole other blog

so maybe

maybe yes

on working full-time in sony

i achieved nothing today except this sentence

and tomorrow will be the same

methinks

on the 1,000th day

it's been going on that long

and remember, it wasn't about regime change

it was about finding and destroying weapons of mass destruction

funny how shit unfolds, in a 1,000 days of war

i hope they each rot in hell

(kudos to the english indo for their coverage of this story, especially for the way they publish articles on their website in column format)

on protest etiquette

higgins and harte have both posted the contents of a sign that was liberally waved about at last friday's irish ferries protest

the sign, which has now strangely disappeared from the room, contained a quote from Pastor Niemoeller's famous poem about Nazi prosecution

the one that ends, then they came for me-/and there was no one left/to speak out for me

let's keep things in perspective now

the Nazi's were responsible for the systematic extermination of millions of innocents

irish ferries want to bring in low-waged workers from latvia

so maybe the use of Niemoeller's poem wasn't in the best of taste

beyond that, there was a weird subtext to the protest in general

maybe i'm overly cynical, but i get the feeling that whole gig was more to do with protecting irish jobs than it was about protecting the rights of the workers that irish ferries are gearing up to exploit

and when they fucked the latvians over i did not speak out, because i was irish and had a secure, well-paid job and didn't really care for as long as it didn't effect me

if anyone massively disagrees i'll get in to this a bit more

or think about it at least

on journalism (sans shorthand)

tomorrow at 10.20am, you will have failed the third exam of your academic life and the second that actually counts towards an overall grade

the first you failed was a 5th year "christmas test" in physics
(St. Mary's C.B.S.)

the second was a first year english paper that you just didn't go to
(TCD)

the third, it seems, will be shorthand
(D.I.T. Aungier St.)

funny though, the prospect of imminent failure doesn't make you feel any less of a journalist (or fledgling one at least)

which is not to say that you don't value shorthand as a skill and you're not out to diss the module

it's just not a skill that is or ever likely will be of value to you

because you're studying journalism for very specific reasons

and these reasons are based on certain things that you believe

you have an unshakeable (albeit sadly anachronistic) view of the role newspapers should play in our society

An institution that should always fight for progress and reform, never tolerate injustice or corruption, always fight demagogues of all parties, never belong to any party, always oppose privileged classes and public plunderers, never lack sympathy with the poor, always remain devoted to the public welfare, never be satisfied with merely printing news, always be drastically independent, never be afraid to attack wrong, whether by predatory plutocracy or predatory poverty.

Joseph Pulitzer wrote that in his first editorial as editor of New York World in 1883

it's recreated on a bronze plaque that's nailed to the wall of the New York Times building

if there'd been a line in Pulitzer's editorial along the lines of, "and that all employees shall have the ability to take accurate notes at press conferences", maybe you'd be more concerned

and he was writing in the days before dictaphones too

and long before Gonzo journalism, for which accuracy is about as important as

structure

you might sound arrogant, but you know where you're going and if you can't get there in a way that you believe in you'll just pick a different destination

you're not willing to be conventional for the sake of now

you're not willing to compromise for the sake of "success"

you said before that you'd rather work in a laundrette than file a story about one burning down

you honestly meant it

you believe in journalism, but in a higher sense, beyond the mundane

you believe in what it can achieve, in the importance and necessity of honest, fearless journalism being written if we're ever gonna solve our problems

you know you've not done yourself justice on that front these last three months

but you just can't motivate yourself to work hard at elements of a profession that don't really matter to you

you're gonna have problems, kiddo

you were so pissed off by the manner in which your interview in DCU was conducted, you went directly to a tattoo parlour in town and had the Gonzo fist carved in to your right wrist in black ink

you decided that from that point on, you wouldn't let anything deflect you from the path you'd decided to take

you knew if you failed to get in to the course, you could always look at your wrist and remember the goals you'd set yourself and the reasons to keep writing, regardless

you were offered a place in DCU and took real pleasure in turning it down

so your tattoo worked

it's a constant reminder

it's a personal tribute to the man that inspired you to write

it's also a fitting symbol to live by for someone starting out in a profession that's had its balls cut off

throw a punch the right way and you won't break your hand

your thumb, if properly locked, will support the knuckles of the first and second finger

the knuckle of the third finger usually won't make contact

the knuckle of the fourth is most vulnerable

get the angle of attack wrong and you'll dislocate your fourth knuckle, the trapezium

you'll crack it if too, if you're unlucky, which can leave it appearing flat and feeling stiff for the rest of your life

you'll almost definitely break the scaphoid, the bone in your hand that runs from the base of the trapezium to the radius at the start of your wrist

it's something that's known informally in A&E rooms on a saturday night as a "boxer's fracture"

and it hurts like hell

the Gonzo fist, which sits on top of a dagger, has two thumbs

it's at once a classic symbol of resistance (the clenched fist, raised in defiance) and a symbol of strength

throw a punch with a Gonzo fist and you're not likely to be the one going to A&E

* * * *

it seems strange that something this irrelevant to your goals might lead to you failing your masters, or at least blowing any chance of a first out of the water

still, you can't help your attitude

your tattoo hasn't gone anywhere, and never will

* * * *

you look down at the keyboard and decide that 26 letters, 10 digits and a half dozen or so punctuation marks will do fine for what you have in mind

if you can master just these in your life, you'll be happy

on saturation

i'm studying journalism, so i'm interested in news

i use google to search and e-mail, and sometimes to read the news

but the new google news feature is a bit irritating

cos e-mailing, my daily means of escaping, is now news-linked too

unrequested, on all G-mail screens, there's a link

the link refreshes itself, and has a forward/back/customise option

in the last few minutes, this is what the link said:

SI.com - Bills suspend Moulds for game vs. Patriots - 17 hours ago... Yahoo! News: Entertainment - Christian Stores Capitalize on 'Narnia' (AP) - 2½ hours ago... Forbes.com Most Popular Stories - The Forbes Fictional 15 - 2 days ago... Ginger Spam Salad - Serves 1, refrigerate overnight... SI.com - High School Football Power Rankings - 19 hours ago... Quote of the Day - R. Buckminster Fuller - "Man knows so much and does so little."... ESPN.com - Barnett out as coach of Colorado - 2 hours ago... The Motley Fool - Fidelity Soft No More... Discovery Channel News - Scientists: Surprising Tsunami Findings - 2 days ago... Official Google Blog - Public transit via Google - 1 day ago... Engadget - Sorell's NF1 does GPS, music, and vids - 3½ hours ago... ESPN.com - Kentucky's Morris ruled ineligible for entire season - 14 hours ago... Wired News: Top Stories - Spend Money While You Earn It - 7 hours ago... ESPN.com - No. 3 UConn avenges '04 loss to UMass - 10 hours ago... BusinessWeek Online -- Top News - Should You Own a Hotel Room? - 8 hours ago... NYT Travel - 'JetBlue Factor' Expands Your Weekend Reach - 13 hours ago... Dictionary.com Word of the Day - voluptuary: a person devoted to luxury and the gratification of sensual appetites.

now then, why was i here?

why yes, to mail a picture to someone

dear Google...

if i'd wanted to know, i'd have asked

you provide a wonderful service, but didn't your mother ever tell you that "proffered service is little valued"?

sincerely,

T.

on, and on, and on, and on...

three years later and she just can't fucking let it go

i'll be changing my number soon

watch this space

on john lennon's anniversary

around this time of night 25 years ago, John Lennon was gunned down in front of the Dakota Building in New York

he's been dead longer than i've been on the planet, but it's still strange to think of him being gone, of his dying like that

it was so damn pointless, such a waste

i've just been thinking of him the last while, and listening to some records

it'd get you down really

on thatcher's hospitalisation

better late than never

fingers crossed

on editors

...i could be wrong, but this is what i heard...

...that in Ancient Rome, the guy that arranged the bloody games at the Colloseum, his title was the "editor"...

...so...

...this guy, the organiser, the manager, the director of presentation for daily atrocities aimed at keeping the masses entertained, peaceful, united...

...he's the origin of the title "editor"...

...that's where we get the word from...

...and maybe the job description hasn't changed all that much since they were opening pits with lions in them, flooding the arena and dropping in sharks...

...beacause newspapers, radio, tv news, the media in general, they play a number of roles in our lives, some more subtle than others...

...there's the dissemination of news, of course...

...the publication and broadcasting of "matters of public interest"...

...but the reasons we read, listen, watch, they're more complicated...

...our reasons for reading, listening, watching, they're symptomatic of our society...

...we're voyeurs...

...it's a strange and horrible thought, but maybe we take pleasure in reading about the latest murder...

...or terrorist attack...

...earthquakes, floods, hurricaines...

...because by reading about it, you prove that it hasn't happened to you...

...a perverse "Cogito ergo sum"...

...it might have happened in your city, or even to someone you know...

...it might have "changed the world in which you live", (see 9/11)...

...but for every day you're able to be horrified, outraged, terrified, that's another day when you're not the victim...

...it's somebody else's tragedy...

...and it's the reason why for centuries we've read Greek Tragedy too...

...it's called catharsis...

...expose an audience, evoke pity, evoke fear, bring them to the emotional brink...

...healing, easing, soothing strong negative emotions by exposing our minds to the extremes of human suffering, with a resultant emotional relief, release and sense of well-being...

...because deep down, we all know we live in a very sick, troubled, unjust world...

...but we don't like admitting this to ourselves...

...so we make it through our days by filling them with simple pleasures...

...coffee, our homes, friends and lovers...

...we use them as a buffer between our existence and the reality outside...

...but we know the world we create for ourselves is a delicate one, one that can be torn down at any moment by the next murder, or terrorist attack, or earthquake, or flood...

...and so we read for comfort...

...because it's not us...

...not us we're reading about...

...collectively, united, peacefully (and entertained), it's always not us...

...safe until tomorrow's possilbe headlines...

...and so, like the citizens of Ancient Rome, we look to the editor to arrange a daily performance of bloody atrocities, a sacrafice to the ways of the world that isn't us, safe in the knowledge that for today at least we'll be seated in the audience, cheering, booing, horrified, appalled, but fuck it i'm in the audience, so that's fine by me...

...but like i said, i might be wrong...

on last night

POZZO: (calmer) Gentlemen, I don't know what came over me. Forgive me. Forget all I said. (More and more his old self.) I don't remember exactly what it was, but you may be sure there wasn't a word of truth in it.

(Waiting For Godot, Act 1)

on the 24hr day

i'm starting a campaign to lengthen the day from 24 hours to 36

this, in the vague hope that i'll actually get something done

anyone interested in joining the good fight, sign below

on grannies

it's the same old routine, the same old pattern

once again my mum was up late last night, worrying

just waiting for a simple call to say that everything was okay

(possibilities for disaster are always endless in a mother's mind)

she got her call, but not till 1.15am, several hours in to panic

but, for once, she wasn't waiting on a call from me

me, i made the last bus, highly respectable

so anyway, my granny eventually called to say she was home, safe and sound. she'd been at her neighbourhood's christmas do, turkey and ham, party hats, the whole nine yards. (the food was terrible by the way, too cold by the time it made the tables, so 50 or so OAP's noisily complained, waved various walking aids in the air and duly received a partial refund of 10euro. it brings to mind that scene from Tough Guys when Burt Lancaster taps his teeth and says, "See these...? all mine... we want REAL FOOD", or words to that effect)

culinary problems aside though, it seems fun was had by all

she danced the night away with this, from a woman of 79 that fractured three veritbrae in her spine last march

this blog, from a lad of 23 that at 1.30pm still feels half asleep, has never danced despite a relatively intact spine, and wouldn't complain about the food if it waved at me before lighting a cigarette

more power to her

on face transplants

what?

seriously?

cool...

on the 10

it's pissing rain out... when you eventually find the bus stop you're already late for work... it's your first day and you still don't actually know where work is... you never had a great sense of direction but the northside is a total dead loss... the traffic is biblical... you want it to be this evening, you've got something to look forward to... standing on the bus, you really wish you hadn't applied for the job... you make yourself as small as possible to allow a mother and her buggy in to the luggage area near the front of the bus... she doesn't say thank you but her baby's cute... she sounds Russian when she argues on the phone... the bus empties out after a bit and mother and buggy alight... a man in his early sixties takes the backwards-facing seat in the luggage area... you stay standing because the bus driver is gonna tell you where to get off, so you have to stay nearby... the old man is talking to himself... you try not to watch... you fail... he swings from being irritable to agreeing with himself in a "sure that's the way the world is" kinda way... he's not so much speaking as miming and nodding now... you realise he's wet his trousers... he's a big man, and his belly hangs halfway across his crotch, but he's wearing light grey cotton pants, so it's all pretty clear... your sense of gloom is growing by the second... you feel genuinely sorry for the old man... he's a pathetic, broken figure and doesn't seem to know... in fact his only concern is what looks like an inexplicable chalk stain on his right shoulder, which he continuously rubs and dabs at with a wetted forefinger... distracted, you're jerked forward when the bus stops... stumbling, you slightly stub the toe of a relatively large black lady... she loudly curses you in what you presume to be some African dialect or other... you quickly apologise and she snorts and looks away... when she storms off the bus (she was waiting in the aisle) you take a look around at the people that are left... seated nearby and facing you is a man in soiled trousers, brain long rotted by drink... you count one, two, three obvious nationalities... they all look miserable and no-one's talking... welcome to the melting pot... you can't wait to leave.

on the 77 (the joys of parenting 2)

nokia tune

...hello?

...what?

...speak up, i can't hear you...

...i said SPEAK UP...

...you what?

...where?

...and what did your daddy say?

...oh hellooooo, i thought you were sick...

...you're "feeling better"?

...so when will you be home?

...what time tomorrow?

...right... BYE...

on smoking

I smoke. If this bothers anyone, I suggest you look around at the world in which we live and shut your fuckin' mouth. (Bill Hicks)

i'm not gonna get in to the whole smoking issue here, Bill more or less said it all in the lines above (and elsewhere, in far greater detail)

i just wanna talk about one little part of it

i read a report a few weeks ago that said the government are considering banning ten-packs as part of their anti-smoking measures

the idea is that kids won't be able to afford twenty-packs and therefore won't start

oh, and adults will be deterred too

right

let's make one thing clear from the outset

the State makes a hell of a lot of money from smokers, and despite the stark warnings they've plastered all over the packs, the exchequer would take a serious hit if smokers hadn't stopped reading these messages after about three days

that bugs me

SMOKING IS SO BAD FOR YOU AND OTHERS AROUND YOU, AND WE'RE SO INCREDIBLY CONCERNED ABOUT YOUR HEALTH, WELL SON, WE'RE GOING TO HAVE TO tax it

fuck that

and it's not a case of the State recognising the fact that we should be free to make our own decisions as rational, autonomous beings either

if that was the case we could buy dope and smack in Tescos

most of the planet rolled over and banned dope because the Americans realised a long time ago that the oil-based world economy would go in to convulsions if a clean, renewable, multi-purpose resource called "hemp" was made available to all those nations that they quite literally had over a barrel

but that's a whole other post, long overdue

cigarettes are quite different though

no risk to the old economic order

no messy social questions

no need to educate

no stigma

(apart from the one they're obliged to fuel, just enough to make it seem like they're anti-smoking, but not so much that it works and people actually quit - an ingenious balancing act that deserves credit)

okay, as a smoker, i suggest the following

if you're that worried, ban them

bring in prohibition laws, send smokers scurrying to speakeasy-style rooms on the fringes of the city (at least we could smoke indoors) and whatever you do, stop making money off my habit at the same time you're telling me i'm wrong

it's just too fucking hypocritical

stop making all these limp-wristed attempts at cutting down on smoke-related deaths

banning ten packs?

come on, if you were serious you'd make us buy them by the thousand, that'd be a real fucking deterrent

oh, and you could try making us smoke them all at once too - isn't that what parents are supposed to do when they catch an errant child?

but the money being made from smokers is the key issue here and if they wanted to stop us smoking i sincerely believe they could

banning cigarettes from the work environment, increasing taxes, splashing diseased lungs on our screens, they're all just attempts at making it seem like there's a pro-active anti-smoking campaign in full swing at the highest levels of Irish political life

i'm not saying smoking isn't a bad thing - i've read the reports and felt the damage

but the fraudulent approach of this and other states is sickening

if you're gonna tax cigarettes "as a deterrent" or health initiative or whatever you want to call it, plough every last cent you make on an addiction that you allow to pervade our society back in to the health services

if you're that worried about me, tax me back to health

shit, if i thought that this would happen i'd smoke twice as much in the hope that when i'm old and sick there might actually be a decent health infrastructure to look after me

i've a huge problem with duplicity, be it from the State or people i come across on a daily basis, and no amount of exposure to it will ever make me swallow

i choose to spit

on larry's request

we've all been asked to comment on Gwen Halley's recent attack on Vincent Browne in the Sindo

i'm not gonna, for a few reasons

firstly, as a piece of writing it's beyond shite, and doesn't deserve whatever vague credibility an MAJ class discussion will lend it.

secondly, and more importantly, this is a blog, which by definition is an expression of personal opinion. it therefore seems counterintuitive to take direction on what the blog content should be. under ordinary circumstances i would have no opinion on Gwen Halley because i wouldn't read the Sindo if i was stranded on Mars with a choice between Life and a high callibre bullet.

i've soiled my brain but only acceded to do so under orders. therefore, to comment any further on the matter in this domain would not be an accurate reflection of self, which everything i've written so far in room1004 has aimed to be.

on parenting (the joys of)

that's it, i'm never having kids

they just grow up, buy filghts to India, someone calls a stripper and then everyone cries

on the wizard

"this monkey's gone to heaven" (The Pixies)

just heard the sad news that george best has died

i met him two years ago when i was working at a racecourse in Brighton

he still had it

the room was electirified when he walked in

he was the centre of gravity for about 600 people that day

in my short career as a waiter i never neglected more tables to look after (and just be around) one man

i'm a romantic, so heroes have always appealed to me, especially flawed ones

i'm sickened by elements in the media (and general public) that take the moral high ground on his life - the smug, judgemental fucks

yes, he self-destructed

yes, he blew his second chance

yes, things could have been different

no, that doesn't make his demise any less tragic

personally, i'll remember grainy old barely colour footage

and stories, lots of memories and stories

and one day in brighton

god bless

Ní bheidh a leithéid arís ann.

on drink-driving ads (the Ludovico method)

"What exactly is it, sir, that you're going to do?"
"Oh," said Dr. Branom, his cold stetho going all down my back, "it's quite simple really. We just show you some films."
"Films?" I said. I could hardly believe my ookos, brothers, as you may well understand. "You mean," I said, "it will be just like going to the pictures?"
"They'll be special films," said Dr. Branom. "Very special films. You'll be having the first session this afternoon."

Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange, pg.73.

well... yes, and here we go again... (HST)

christmas creeps close and the government orders another round of anti-drink-driving advertisements for the Irish public, on them, bless their oily souls.

and every year they get a little more horrific...

scene one - people mangled in a car, don't drink and drive

scene two - pretty young thing in pieces on the road, don't drink and drive

scene three - pretty young thing turns around and shows that the other side of her face ain't pretty no more, don't drink and drive

scene four - paralysed kid, don't drink and drive

scene five - screams, pain, rehabilitation sucks, don't drink and drive

scene six - guy considers having a drink, remembers that ad he saw on tv and decides not to risk it. pretty young thing at the bar finds this sexy and lustily moves closer. wahay, i've pulled, definitely don't drink and drive

(scene seven, in which they're both sober, realise they've nothing in common and leave seperately but safely in their cars having had a really shit night, was apparently edited from the final version but will be available as a special feature on the easter bank holiday dvd release)

deaths caused by drink driving are tragic and avoidable - no argument there - but the government's method of deterring drink driving is hugely questionable

rather than dealing with cause, the government shoves effect down our throats on an annual basis

last night's launch of the new drink-driving campaign unsettled me, not because of the gross imagery involved, but rather because of something it slowly but surely brought to mind

a clockwork orange

...or more specifically, the Ludovico method...

Burgess presents us with a world in which adolescent violence has become such a heaving social problem that the government eventually resorts to an extreme kind of Pavlovian response treatment

anyone that's read the novel, or seen the film that did a very poor job of interpreting it, will know what this entailed

prison, drugs, and forced to watch reel after reel of violent and sexually explicit movies, run to a blasting Beethoven soundtrack

the drugs take hold and Alex, the protagonist, becomes violently ill when viewing the imagery

over time, even without the drugs, Alex is repulsed by the films or even the thought of violence

or even the classical music he has grown to associate with the treatment

association brings nausea

he goes from violence ("all the vesches i had done"), to programmed and reflective passivity ("very quiet and like yearny")

it works, but it's clearly wrong

wrong in an intuitive sense

wrong in a human sense

wrong

this Ludovico method (a play on Beethoven's first name) removes a key part of what it is to be human

...choice...

you don't do it, but not because you think it through and decide it's morally wrong, you don't do it because the thought of doing it causes a spasmic reflex that floods your mind, a reflex void of logic but overwhelming in effect

it's what Burgess termed "negative reinforcement"

a key passage from the novel reads:

"Choice," rumbled a rich deep gloss. I viddied it belonged to the prison charlie. "He has no real choice, has he? Self-interest, fear of physical pain, drove him to that grotesque act of self-abasement. Its insincerity was clearly to be seen. He ceases to be a wrongdoer. He ceases also to be a creature capable of moral choice."

"These are subtleties," like smiled Dr Brodsky. "We are not concerned with motive, with higher ethics. We are concerned only with cutting down crime-" (pg.94)

and so are our government

commendable as their wish to stop road deaths may be, the government should stop trying to shock us in to breaking our bad habits

"DRINK DRIVE AND YOU'LL KILL A KID JUST LIKE THIS ONE YOU FUCK. STOP IT NOW. COULD YOU LIVE WITH THE SHAME? DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE, DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE, DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE, YOU'RE A BAD PERSON, YOU'RE GOING TO HELL, LOOK AT THIS, BLOOD, GUTS, FUCK YOU, STOP THINKING, YOU'RE WRONG"

or, we could, let's say, morally educate people from a young age instead of teaching them calculus

if people had more of a social conscience, a part of our development completely neglected in the education system, we wouldn't have nearly so many problems

...shame, guilt, prison...

this is the unholy trinity that's supposed to keep our society in check

and let's face it, if consequence was a deterrent from the act, our prisons would be empty

and hands wouldn't still be lopped off with a frightening frequency in Saudi Arabia

educate, educate, educate

for once in our fucking collective existence as a putatively evolved society, let's address the bigger picture, rather than the spilled milk

what sort of society would you prefer to live in? one in which we're shocked in to not doing something? or one in which we don't do it because we have respect for those we share this rock with? because we're good, educated, moral people? because we care more about others than we care about the shame of being caught?

so, i'll close with the words that open a clockwork orange:

"What's it gonna be then, eh?"

on garry glitter

bleed that cunt to death. and all of his ilk. no excuses, no second chances, no sympathy.

on cocaine

again, never again

another blurred morning filled with regret

and guilt

another night twisting and turning when you finally get the head down

fractured sleep

disturbed dreams

and guilt

always guilt

always never again

sleep in, what masquerades as sleep now, miss the first half of your day

slide to the floor, shower and black coffee, hope it'll get you through the afternoon

hands shaking so don't bother to shave

no breakfast

food's still not an option after last night

your appetite is the first to go and last to come back

you have to start looking after yourself

GUILT

you need to stop abusing your brain

there's only so much it can take

some day it might just burn out

so you make yourself a promise, again

never again will you... watch another fucking docu-drama made by Sky One.

last night's Coked-Up Britain, which has been hyped for the last week and a half as a cutting-edge hard-assed exposé of cocaine culture in the UK, was one of the finest examples of the garbage currently being produced by one of the most widely watched channels in these isles

it was crass, sensationalist, off-balance, one-sided...

they took three cocaine abusers, interviewed them, and then dramatised events that covered a period of very hazy length

case 1 - a 30 something woman, working as a secretary, becomes an addict/pregnant/unemployed neglectful mother in turn. child is taken by social services, goes through rehab, gets child back

case 2 - a 40 something man, hyper successful, hyper cocaine/alcohol abuser. just hyper. loses job, loses family, flies to America for rehab, gets family and job back.

case 3 - a 30 something male disaster, 30 grand in death, posts himself part of his cocaine stash every day so that he doesn't take it all in one go. loses everything, including his mind. takes up poker.

this tripe pretends to be journalism

at risk of sounding flippant, these are not your average cocaine users/abusers. granted they exist, but making a docu-drama exclusively on these lines only serves to further cloud the minds of middle-class, drug-ignorant viewers by painting a selective and extremely negative picture of contemporary drug culture.

it's not all broken families and premature babies in withdrawal

these are terrible things, but as long as mainstream media insist on pushing just one side of a story, society will never reach a full understanding of the real issues involved

demonise something for long enough and it'll retreat and stay underground, which is where it festers and becomes a real problem

bring it out in the open and have the balls to point out that drugs aren't something that Lucifer slipped on to Earth on the 7th day when God was resting, and maybe we'll start making progress

there are positives

there are times and reasons and ways of doing things that don't automatically equate a life derailed

if we're ever going to "solve" the drug "problem", an honest, mature education needs to be provided

at the moment, such an education is completely lacking in most Western societies

Coked-out Britain made me feel all those things that I opened this post with. although the tone was tongue-in-cheek, that kind of duplicity in the media makes me feel worse than any hangover from any substance that i've ever experienced.

it's an abuse of position, an abuse of the journalistic profession and most sickeningly of all, it's yet another abuse of the minds of the viewing public

who said tv wasn't a drug?

(by the by, look up cocaine on the Google Image search with Safe Search turned off and you'll find a picture of Woodie Allen on page 4. you see... positives...)

http://www.whitehouse.org/news/2005/072805.asp

on jfk's anniversary

Where were you when JFK was shot? Me, I was somewhere in the cosmos waiting to be born, patiently counting down the eighteen years, six months, and twenty-four days till I breached the physical and began my innings as transcendental ego housed in flesh.

Sorry.

I know it’s not the best JFK story, but it’s all I’ve got.

Kurt Cobain, Diana, 9/11. Why do we persistently ask these “Where were you when” questions? And why are the subjects of these questions invariably the death and destruction of Celebrity? No one asks “Where were you when JFK was inaugurated?” No one cares. But almost every American that was alive at the time of Kennedy’s assassination seems able to provide an anecdote of exactly what they were doing when they heard the news of his death.

Kennedy assassination has had a curious and enduring fascination that goes far beyond the immediate political shockwaves it caused. Like the deaths of many public figures, (or the simultaneous deaths of vast amounts of unknown individuals, such as the 2001 World Trade Centre attacks), Kennedy’s assassination has become a strange and macabre cultural event, and this forms at least part of the impulse to ask “Where were you when.”

Furthermore, Western Celebrity-fetish has a nasty propensity to immerse itself in the spilled blood of its idols. Our senses are assaulted daily with images of Celebrity, and we eventually develop a sense of emotional attachment to these images. This in turn creates a voyeuristic phenomenon in our minds, whereby we feel we have a right of access to details of their deaths.

Luckily, celebrities have a certain habit of leaving the planet in a dramatic, tabloid-friendly fashion. Countless celebrity suicides or deaths-by-misadventure, the odd car crash and a sprinkling of murders – especially when the event itself or the immediate aftermath is captured on celluloid – go a long way to satiating both our appetite for celebrity palaver, and also that strange human impulse that is best summed up in the old maxim that we can’t help looking at the wreckage of a car crash as we slink past in the resultant traffic jam.

Sometimes though, our fascination with events like the Kennedy assassination goes beyond the callous fetish outlined above. Sometimes an event is so shocking that we can only start to deal with and comprehend it by giving it some resonance, some meaningful place in our own, unrelated and perhaps ultimately unaffected lives.

When Kennedy was murdered, America (and most of the world) was instantly convulsed in a state of absolute Horror. The psychological effect and scale of what had happened went beyond any frame of reference that anyone to date had a grasp of. Everything that had previously seemed untouchable about American (and Western) idealism was now up for grabs, suddenly seeming just as vulnerable as a president in an open-topped limousine.

When the shit rains down like that you have two options: you can either stand there and watch it gather around your ankles and think, “Jesus, that’s a lotta shit”; or, you can react and stamp your mark on that first shit deposit. By creating a personal association with the event you can hardwire an apocalyptic public signifier to a more manageable, personal signified in the brain.

And so, for many Americans, the “Where were you when Kennedy was assassinated?” question was a way of dealing with the appalling vista on a personal level. Everyone that has a Kennedy story has etched his or her own mark on a social/cultural milestone. More importantly though, between the lines of these stories there is often a subconscious attempt at summing up or grasping the whole situation; crystallising a memory or an act or a moment that represents the shattering of “the great myth of American decency.”

When Hunter S. Thompson heard the news that J.F.K. was dead he was alone on his ranch in Woody Creek, Colorado. Feeling distraught, overwhelmed and powerless, he reacted in the only way that seemed available, which was to write a letter to William J. Kennedy, an old friend and editor from the San Juan Star and subsequently the author of several highly acclaimed novels:

I am tired enough to sleep here in this chair, but I have to be in town at 8.30 when Western Union opens, so what the hell. Besides, I am afraid to sleep for fear of what I might learn when I wake up. There is no human being within 500 miles to whom I can communicate anything, much less the fear and loathing that is on me after today’s murder.

The letter that the above lines are taken from is perhaps the most perfect reaction to the Kennedy assassination I have ever read. It captures the shock, anger and fear of the moment. It is mundanely personal (the Western Union reference), and yet it contains the first known use of one of the most famous (albeit borrowed) trademark phrases of the twentieth century, “fear and loathing”. It is sublimely unaware of itself as a piece of writing, and yet over forty years later it manages to communicate more of the essence of that dark day than any number of books or movies combined.

So there you have it. Moment absorbed, cultural milestone etched, a world-changing event hard-wired to a personal memory, all culminating in a stroke of literary genius.

In short, striking gold in a polluted sea of shit.

on rape (and the 21st century justification of)

...it's their own fault, apparently...

...especially if they're wearing revealing clothes...

...and are "flirty"...

Amnesty International recently commissioned a report on attitudes in the UK towards rape victims

"sympathy", surely, is a word that should spring to mind

but no, one in three blame the (female) victims

you see, apparently if you're flirty and wearing revealing clothes, you're asking to be violated

oh, and if you're "known to have had a lot of sexual partners", you're partly responsible too

that's what 15% said

8% said this made you "totally responsible"

if you're drunk, 5% of women feel it's completely your own fault

3% of men do

maybe this is why an estimated 85% of rapes in england go unreported every year

that comes to around 70,000 women

because if you've had a lot of sexual partners, you're flirtatious, you dress provocatively and enjoy a few drinks on a friday night... well, what do you expect?

sympathy?

on the rape of the english language

c1600 – To be, or not to be; that is the question:

2005 – 2b?Ntb?=?

Fuck this.

The Guardian yesterday reported that “the most complicated and wordy works of English literature” are being compressed in to text messages, “to help students [in England] choose classics and master their revision”.

The service is being launched by the student mobile company, dot mobile. The idea is to send directly to student mobiles “everything” they need to know about a given novel or play…

...in the form of a text…

...which accommodates 160 characters…

And so, Paradise Lost, Bleak House, The Great Gatsby, Pride and Prejudice… they’re all being defiled, slashed and bastardised to the length of around two sentences.

An entire book… a timeless work of art… in a text...

Again, I have two words to offer on the subject...

FUCK THIS.

But perhaps I’m being small minded… anachronistic even…

After all, the scheme has received the backing of Professor John Sutherland, an English literature professor at University College London and chair of the panel of this year’s Man Booker prize.

Defending the compression of a text like Bleak House in to a text message, Sutherland quipped that “The ‘Great Inimitable’ himself began working life as a shorthand writer. He would, I suspect, have approved of the brevity if nothing else.”

I beg to differ…

Bleak House, depending on your edition, comes in at between 800 and 1,000 pages of vivid characters, intersecting plot and scathing social commentary on the injustices of the Mid-Victorian period.

If Dickens was after brevity, I don’t think he would have opted to publish his novel in nineteen monthly instalments. He might, say, have left out the social commentary part…

But we in the early days of the 21st century know better it seems, and so we see fit to rewrite Bleak House in a way that Dickens probably would have done if he’d just given it a little more thought… or had access to a mobile phone:

EstherBecumsWardOfJarndyceWhosInCortCase.OvaWards
Rich&Ada(L8aACuple).Tulkinghorn-nosyLawyer-WorksOutLadyDedlock=E’sMum.CaseEnds w/no1gtn money.E marrysSexyDoc-Liv 2gevaInBleakHse.Rich&L.DedlockDie.

This is the sort of bile that will be sent to students… to help with their “English Studies”…

Not only does it completely Miss The Fucking Point, these texts also add momentum to the further degradation of the English language, by giving a certain credence to textspeak – “Ova”, “L8a”, “2geva”, “gtn”…

Or for people who speak English, “other”, “later”, “together”, “getting”…

Presenting Dickens in the CHAV language of Lady Sovereign seems just a little disingenuous. Why are we so willing to devolve our arts and language, just to appease people with the attention span of a dope-smoking goldfish?

It reminds me of a Bill Hicks sketch from the early 90s:

“They actually have a Bible out called The New Living Bible. It’s a Bible in updated and modern English… I guess to make it more palatable for people to read. But it’s kinda strange listening to ‘And Jesus walked on water, and Peter said “Awesome”.’ Suddenly we got Jesus hangin’ ten across the Sea of Galilee, Christ’s Bogus Adventure…”

I’m strongly beginning to suspect that Professor Sutherland is a habitual abuser of LSD. How else can you explain a professor of English supporting the rape of his heritage? He seems rather jolly about the whole thing, whereas most uncompromised minds would surely recoil at a description of the male protagonists of Pride and Prejudice as “Fit&Loadd”. (Oh, and for anyone that hasn’t read the book or needs help revising, you’ll be glad to know that although “LizH8sDCosHsProud…TrnsOutHesActulyARlyNysGuy&RlyFancysLiz.SheDecyds
SheLyksHim.Every1GtsMaryd.”)

But we can at least be happy that these kids will still be learning quotes from the heavyweights of English literature… for example, Gatsby is now warned:

“MembaDatAlDaPplInDaWrldHvntHdDaVantgsUvAd”

Two words people, two little words…

Here’s a thought. If you want students to study the classics, don’t hack them till they fit in a text in the vain hope that this will make studying more attractive. Just teach the damn things properly. Instead of force-feeding a book chapter by chapter, try to inspire an interest that will make reading the book an enjoyable experience. Give some social and historical perspective. Try to instil a sense of the joys of literature and take the focus off learning quotes and recognising themes and motifs. Try to make reading equate to something more than passing an exam, and exams equate to something more than knowing a handful of quotes. Fire every embittered middle-aged teacher that on a daily basis takes out the frustrations of their mundane lives on his or her students. Replace all that dead wood with college graduates who still have a passion for what they do and aren’t burnt out by years in a stale system. They might just make the students give a shit. And hey, let’s go hog-wild and take teaching out of the classroom every once in a while. How can you expect a kid to appreciate Wordsworth when he’s reading all these poems about the sublime beauty of nature in a dreary classroom, sitting beside some sweaty fat kid that’s just waiting for the next free period so he can pound on him some more? Ever think that maybe we’re coming at this whole education thing a little half-assed? Ever wonder why so many kids either drop out or leave school with little or no appreciation of their artistic heritage?

Oh yea, and next on the dot mobile’s “To Do” list is a “complete, shrunken works of Shakespeare”.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF…

Professor Sutherland, dressed in hoodie and distractedly eating a bowl of pineapple, was quoted as saying that texting, which isn’t even a real word, is an underused but promising educational resource. So here goes…

IfIdABllt4EvPrsnInvlvdNDisStupdFckngSkemIdBAHapyrMan

on why I’m doomed to fail as a journalist

Today’s post was supposed to be about finishing off the one I canned last night. It was supposed to be a fresh attempt at writing all those clever things I’d noticed at Tuesday’s book launch… a touching portrait of a poet with one leg nervously reading his poetry before a crowd of his peers… his boyish embarrassment at the compliments received… the fragility of the artist… the fact that his mum was the only one in the room that read along with him, silently… that she was the only one that really understood the references to his childhood, and therefore smiled when no one else did.

There was even going to be pathos…

But something worrying happened, so you’ll have to fill in the gaps yourself…

Within five minutes of abandoning “on going to a(nother) book launch” and leaving room1004, I came across a blaze. The laundrette facing The Swan was in the process of self-destructing, the apparent result of tins of paint being stored above an extraction or heating vent.

As I walked past, three fire brigades, an ambulance and a number of gardai arrived. The apartments above the laundrette were being quickly evacuated. Traffic ground to a halt and a crowd began to gather.

I joined them.

Having abandoned my resolution to not smoke, I lit a cigarette and stood there idly watching… The amount of smoke created when a room full of clothes takes light soon made it clear that this was an ill-considered decision…

I persevered…

What I didn’t do though, was act like a journalist. I didn’t ask any questions, I didn’t take notes, I didn’t even hang around to see if there were injuries.

I went in to The Swan and ordered a pint.

A journalist would have returned to room1004, fired off three or four hundred words and had it e-mailed to The Metro and Herald AM before the DFB had re-rolled their hoses.

So what’s wrong with me? There’s certainly an element of shyness here… and the firemen did seem busy…

But more significantly, I think I’ve realised that I’d rather work in a laundrette than file a story about one burning down.

It’s just not the kind of thing that gets me going.

I could have written it, easily, and maybe it would have been printed. I could have asked the woman beside me taking photos on her digital camera to e-mail them to me that night, just to add punch to whatever I ended up writing.

At the very least it would have been a learning experience…

But instead I acted like everyone else on that street, and merely looked on with fading interest every time I went out for another cigarette.

Sometimes I feel there are a lot of articles being printed that don’t really add up to anything more than the words on the page. “Laundrette on Aungier Street burns to ground – paint storage blamed”… and yet the world still turns…

I don’t think that’s the kind of article I had in mind when I signed up for this. I also didn’t expect to be told that if I learn to write a clever headline and keep my sentences short and simple, I’ll be operating more or less at the top of my field.

Journalism, surely, is more vital than that.

Writing is a skill, and it shouldn’t be squandered compressing the trivialities of daily life in to something that can be read, digested and forgotten in the course of a bus journey.

So maybe – despite all my reservations in the last post – what I’d really like to be when I grow up is the guy behind the desk signing copies of his new novel or collection of poetry, all the while being slapped on the back by sycophantic bullshitters whose last novel I just loved.

Or maybe I’ll work in a laundrette.

on going to a(nother) book launch

To be honest, I don't think I really believe a word of what follows in this post - not in the first half anyway. If I read it somewhere, I'd probably disagree. I might even write a strongly worded letter, if I had nothing better to do. The argument I make is narrow at best, with very little (if any) supporting evidence. I've presented stereotypes I find laughable. I generalise to the point of farce... If I were you, I wouldn't read it.

I find book launches weird at the best of times, especially when they're held in bookstores. Not that book stores are particularly weird... but sometimes it seems strange that this one, new and unproven little book should be celebrated so, especially when the literal backdrop is centuries worth of unique, flawed and beautiful literary art.

That said, we've a tendancy to celebrate a child's birth too.

Beyond location though, there's the people that attend book launches and the atmosphere they create. (I count myself out of this group and their atmosphere because I'm invariably at book launches in a working role...)

Book people are a whole different species, and never is this more clearly displayed than at a book launch.They look different, act different, talk about different things. (Negative stereotyping be damned.) They huddle together in groups, inhaling free wine and looking tentatively around the room to see if anyone is noticing how discreet they're being. (This is a behavioural trait they share with another odd species, actors.)

They all absolutely love each other's books. This goes without saying, of course, but if every last novel by every obscure minor novelist I've been introduced to at a book launch was as good as the other obscure novelist that introduced us said it was... well jeez, why aren't you guys famous?

(I don't mean to sound like I'm sneering, but I've a very low tolerance for sycophantic bullshit, especially in the arts.)

Last night, I accepted an invitation to Philip Casey's new collection of poetry, "Dialogue in Fading Light." Poetry launches are particularly uneasy experiences for me, mainly because they involve poets. (Is everyone still on board?)

Poets are like a neurotic subspecies within the writing breed. Compared to other writers, they always seem, I dunno.. vulnerable.

Novelists have great big books to hide behind, and the fictional classification of their work affords many of them a kind of artistic bunker to shelter in. They're respected (the good ones anyways) as artists inspired to take on and illuminate for us the heaving mass of humanity. Or even just a very tiny bit of it, that's okay too.Because, they're cool.

Playwrights are frequently a little eccentric, but unless we're talking about Marina Carr, they're generally in touch with the realities of life. Again, their work is about all humanity, which we like, but we grant them a distance between their work and who they are. You know what, I'm just gonna skip all this posturing and get to talking about last night.

I've know Philip since I was a kid and I know he's had a hard life. Watching him signing copies of his new collection was really satisfying, despite my cynicism with regard to how well-meant the back-slapping was...

But this post wasn't supposed to be about cynicism or stereotyping writers - it was supposed to be about something way more... or way less... something a bit more fundamental.

A very good friend of mine, who oddly enough wants to be a poet, once told me, "Until now I always thought of writers as people that sit in darkened rooms all day and wank."

He said this after we met (and he interviewed) D.B.C. Pierre, which was in the weeks after he won the 2003 Booker Prize...

You know what, I'm tired and this isn't working and I don't wanna smoke so I'm goin home. Sometimes ideas just misfire.

on breaking up

...three days ago my best friend broke up with his girlfriend and we're all still hungover from the experience... he still likes her, she still likes him, we all liked eachother...

...it was just one of those...

...things...

...or so we keep telling him...

...you'll be fine (hopefully true), it wasn't all your fault (a reflex response), time heals (and so does electro-convulsive therapy)...

...so here's a list of things he currently doesn't care about...

...man admits murder of an eighteen-year-old boy with an axe... more than 50 birds from Taiwan died at a UK bird flu centre... car bomb kills three in Karachi... Israeli and Palestinain officials have agreed a border crossing deal... Chirac admits riots reveal French malaise... Ben Bernanke says inflation is too high... Davis's only hopes now lie in the hustings... Bush begins his Asian tour... we still don't know if that guy in England really beat HIV...

...you get the picture...

don't you?

In his shirt pocket blinks the small red light of a tape
recorder taking down every word.
As the Earl asks, "Who's the biggest fool?"
The reporter who refuses to invent a meaning for life?
Or the reader who wants it?
And stands ready to accept this meaning presented in
the words of a stranger?

(Chuck Palahniuk, "Haunted")